


Good Boy

by Euryd1ce



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: BDSM, Body Horror, Branding, Dominant/Submissive, F/F, F/M, Flogging, Foot torture, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knife Play, Mind Games, Mistress/slave, Orgasm Control, Ownership, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Power Play, Scarification, regular ol' boring torture, ritual bathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-12-30 19:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12115407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euryd1ce/pseuds/Euryd1ce
Summary: Silus has vital information needed to keep Caesar's Legion from taking New Vegas right out from under us all. When the NCR's tactics fail, Courier Six has an... unorthodox plan to get what she wants.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. I wrote this fic in a great flash after some quick inspiration and totally not because I'm procrastinating finishing my main fic. No sir. It's going to be a fast, fun fic, though, so enjoy.

The first time he saw her was through the two-way mirror.

 

Two-way mirrors aren’t perfect. If you squint hard or let your eyes relax like an illusion, you can see the figures on the other side. Boyd’s short frame was familiar. Silus knew when he saw her that he was in for another few hours of boredom and weak trading of insults. He almost preferred the silence.

 

This new figure was tall but slender. It’s possible the ranger’s long coat did somewhat to lengthen their overall appearance, but still, he guessed that this person would stand above his shoulder. He leaned forward in his hard, metal chair and wondered what fresh annoyance the good Lieutenant had prepared for him this day.

 

Sure enough, a few minutes later she strolled in, puffing on a disgusting smelling cigarette. He suspected that it was part of her interrogation training to tantalizingly dangle forbidden privileges as a subtle implication that he, too, could have one if he cooperated. Little did the NCR realize that legionaries did not smoke or drink in the normal course of their duties and thus, did not care about that privilege.

 

“Silus,” she drawled, “my friend.”

 

“Boyd,” he said, irritably. “What forces your rank carcass into my presence now?”

 

“Now, now,” she said, taking an even longer drag of her cigarette and blowing its smoke into his face. “Keep that up and I’ll think you don’t like me.”

 

He said nothing, only worked his head side to side to relieve the stress building in his neck.

 

“Well, it turns out that this is your lucky day, Silus.”

 

“You’re going to drop to your knees and wrap your lips around my cock like the good little slave you are?”

 

“Ha. ha. No. I’ve received a considerable bid for your worthless life, actually. A good friend of mine is interested in… purchasing you. Now, of course, you are our honored guest and the NCR does not condone slavery in any way. We’ve signed laws about how prisoners are to be treated…”

 

“Weak, sniveling worms,” spat Silus, feeling the anger tension spread to his shoulders.

 

“...but I believe you deserve a taste of your own medicine.”

 

Silus made an effort to keep his behavior casual. He leaned back in the metal chair and crossed his legs. “What do you mean by that?”

 

“Officially, it means nothing. You will be a piece of paper in a folder labeled ‘informant’ and shoved in the back of a filing cabinet so far that no one will remember you were ever here.” Boyd stepped closer, but not quite within arm’s reach he noticed. “Personally? It means I have a mind to sell you to her right this second and let her walk off with you in chains so you can understand a microscopic amount how every beaten, stolen, raped woman in your so-called nation feels.”

 

Silus lifted his chin and peered intently into Boyd’s round, brown eyes. She is quivering with anger. “You’re not going to do that, though, are you Lieutenant?” he said slowly.

 

“What the hell makes you say that?”

 

“It’s obvious, really. You’re a woman. You love rules.” He shrugged. “You can’t help it. Your natural place in the grand order of the world is at the beck and call of a superior male. Look at the last ‘president’ of yours. She was perfectly happy playing dress-up in California until Caesar was right at her doorstep. Then Kimball had to come in and clean up her mess, but he’s doing such a piss-poor job of it, even this place will be ash within the month.”

 

“Why you…”

 

_BEEP_

 

“Boyd,” crackled the intercom speaker from above the two-way glass. “It’s time.”

 

It was enough to remind Lieutenant Boyd where she is and to whom she is speaking. Pity.

 

“Needless to say,” said the little woman with exacting pronunciation, straightening her fatigues, “You are dead wrong. I already signed you over to her. She just wanted me to show her the goods. Smile, honey.”

 

Silus looked with no small amount of alarm at the two-way mirror again. The tall figure in a ranger’s long coat stood right next to the glass, gas mask pointed directly at him. It… she had her hands behind her back and the butt of a carbine peeking out over one shoulder. She made no move to acknowledge the conversation that she was no doubt overhearing. It filled him with inexplicable rage. He leaned back, then launched a nasty, reeking gob of spit at the window. It landed directly over her gas mask and slowly dripped down the glass.

 

Not even a twitch.

 

“She’ll be back to pick you up in two weeks.”

 

“She’s not taking me with her now?”

 

“No. I assume she has more important things to do than babysit you, Silus. You’re down to a quarter rations on her orders until she returns. As far as the NCR is concerned, you’re on a hunger strike for the next two weeks. Then you hang yourself in this very cell with your own cape. No one will give a single fuck.”

 

With that, she flicked her dead cigarette into the corner and walked out. The figure listened to her words for a moment, then nodded and disappeared leaving Silus alone.

 

xXx

 

There are 206 ceiling tiles. 14 are cracked. 2 are missing. The row on the north side is all half-tiles to make the pattern fit correctly. Silus knows this because he has counted them every day to distract himself from the tearing, snarling hunger inside him.

 

It was a common practice in the Legion to fast before important battles. The hunger would ramp up a man’s aggression, leading to a fiercer, more desperate battalion. The devastation left behind was always impressive. It was also sometimes used as a punishment when orders were not followed promptly or when a new recruit was sloppy while standing at attention. Every legionary has spent at least one week in the first months surviving on sips of water and bread crusts plundered from the garbage. The difference here is stimulation.

 

The cell is completely devoid of anything interesting. No pictures, no books. Not even a cot. Silus has been wadding up his cape for a pillow, but still waking up with pains all over his body. At least while training, there was always work to be done, laps to run, weapons to polish. Here… there’s just nothing. Not even Boyd has stopped by to needle him. Silus suspects this has something to do with the woman who thinks she owns him.

 

When she arrives, he is ready. He has turned the hard metal chair to face the door and straightened his armor until it is just so. His hair is long from being a captive for so many weeks, so it hangs around his jaw. Silus figures this will make him look wilder, more intimidating.

 

First, there is the sound of the far door. It’s faint, but Silus picks up on it immediately. He hears more than one pair of footsteps, all clad in boots. A metal locker opens and several heavy things are placed inside. After an agonizing 15 deep breaths, the door opens and in strides Boyd.

 

“Well, here you are.”

 

“Here I am,” he replies, voice cracking a little with disuse.

 

“I hope you’ve had a restful stay at hotel McCarran, but check out time is now. Your new mistress wants me to tell you to address her as ‘ma’am’ and kneel when she comes into the room. That sounds easy enough, right Silus?”

 

“Choke on a dick.”

 

“Glad we understand each other...”

 

Boyd goes on, but his attention is completely disrupted because there she is.

 

Silus has been seeing this woman in his mind for a fortnight. All he knows is that she is tall and thin. He’s imagined everything possible that could be under that long coat and gas mask. Beautiful… ugly… ghoulish… scarred… actually a part-man-part-dog… everything. Therefore, it galls him that she appears again completely obscured by mask and armor. He stands up, ready to unleash his fury, but is brought up short by her hand.

 

“There are two ways we can do this,” says the mask in a harsh buzz. “The easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice.”

 

Silus screams with rage and brings both his fists to bear, but lack of food and restful sleep has made him sluggish and weak. She easily sidesteps his haymaker and blocks the next jab with her leather bracer. Holding that arm tightly, she brings a stiff knife hand right into his armpit and he falls to the ground, blinded with pain.

 

“Thank you,” she buzzes to Boyd, who can’t disguise her shock. “I see my requests have been taken seriously and I appreciate it. We will require the shackles after all.”

 

Another trooper comes in with wrist and ankle manacles and affixes them tightly to Silus, who is breathing shamefully hard. The arm she struck feels numb.

 

“Can you walk?” she says indicating his legs with a short gesture. “Good. Then follow. Boyd, it’s always a pleasure.”

 

“Wait a minute. His cape, please.”

 

“Ah, of course. Evidence.” She snaps her leathered fingers at Silus. “Stand up and face the wall.”

 

“Burn in hell.” Silus wishes his voice had its usual intimidating depth. It sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

 

Calmly, the woman digs two fingers into the soft tissue under his jaw and forces him up. Silus grinds his teeth together to keep himself from groaning in pain and turns to the nearest wall, trying to play it off like he was going to do so anyway, just in his own time.

 

“Good boy,” she whispers so quietly he might have imagined it. Boyd doesn’t react so maybe he did?

 

Anyway, the Lieutenant snatches his cape with a satisfying rip. “All done.”

 

“Thank you. I’ll keep in touch.”

 

“Please do. I’d love to know how you and my very best friend Silus are getting along.”

 

The woman takes his elbow and guides him out the door to a chair. This one has padding on the seat, a novelty after the hard, unforgiving metal of the one in the cell. Silus sits and seethes while the trooper hands the woman gun after gun. He watches with interest and memorizes where she stores them. Boots, pants, belt, backpack… even a little knife up the hem of her leather gauntlets. While she sleeps it will be nothing to take one and snuff her out like a candle. Maybe he’ll wake her up so he can hear her beg…

 

“Let’s go.”

 

With this happy thought, Silus stands and follows her out of the building and down the passage to the monorail. It is late at night and everything is dark, but she nods to a soldier by the door and the monorail’s doors slide closed behind them. They stand together as it whizzes noisily down its track to the strip. So many hedonistic profligates. He sees flashes of their shameful behavior as the monorail car goes by. Women openly flaunting their breasts, offering to fulfill sexual desires. Soldiers vomiting into fountains and on the roadsides. A fistfight that turns deadly stopped by an enormous metal robot with machinegun fire. Silus only feels more strongly in his heart that New Vegas deserves to be razed to the ground.

 

The gas mask suddenly points at him once more. “Take off your armor.”

 

“What?”

 

“Take off your armor. Put these on instead.” She holds out a dark brown tunic and pants made of sackcloth and off-white leg wrappings. On the seat next to them is a beige hood and goggles.

 

Silus recoils at the ugly garments. “I shall do no such thing.”

 

The mask tips to one side. “You are in enemy territory. You are weak and tired. We have a long way to travel before it is safe to rest. Your armor is heavy and will soak up the heat of the sun in a way you will not enjoy.” She holds out the clothes once more.

 

Normally, Silus would tell her exactly where she can stick her fucking help, but the monorail stops and he sways dangerously. After he regains his tenuous balance and still doesn’t reply, she shrugs and puts the clothes away in a bag. They walk out together through the NCR embassy. It is deserted at night and the clanking of his manacles sounds deafening. So much for hoping that someone would find his situation suspicious. In fact, quite the opposite. Several drunken Vegas citizens hoot and call out to them as they go by.

 

“Caught yourself a big fish, honey!”

 

“Woo! Is it a shotgun wedding or what?”

 

“Can I take the doggie for a walk? Woof woof!”

 

She takes his elbow in hand to steer him away from Gomorrah. “Don’t respond,” she says through her mask’s harsh filter. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

 

Silus didn’t want to anyway. He’s having a difficult enough time with his ankle chains catching on every goddamn pothole in the road. He’s just about ready to sit down in the middle of the goddamn road and refuse to take another step when he looks up and realizes where he is.

 

It’s the Lucky 38.

 

The woman who owns him is the mysterious person who comes and goes from Mr. Houses’ personal casino with impunity.

 

She’s Courier Six, the woman who survived a double-tap to the head.

 

He is so stunned that he just follows her inside, gaping stupidly.

 

“Howdy, partner!” Another enormous metal machine awaits them just inside, rocking back and forth slightly on its one wheel.

 

“Hello, Victor. We’re just here to pick up some things and be on our way. Don’t wait up!”

 

“Well, when you get back, the next round’s on me!”

 

“Of course.”

 

They take an elevator behind him and the Courier thumbs a red button. It’s a long, shaky ride.

 

“Presidential Suite,” says the monotone voice of the elevator. The doors slide open to reveal several bedrooms and a kitchen, fully stocked. She steers him inside to another chair and he sits while she rummages in cabinets. Several cans of beans and tightly sealed packages of meat are stacked on the table beside him. So is a bottle of whiskey and a can opener. She puts her backpack on the floor and empties it, one item at a time. Ammunition… canned foodstuffs… scraps of armor and rivets… another gun… several syringes filled with strangely glowing liquid. Each item is placed in a line on the counter, then adjusted according to some mysterious hierarchy.

 

“Stay here,” she says, striding out quickly. Silus hears doors opening and shutting. In a moment, she returns with another backpack and several small bags.

 

“Stand up.”

 

He looks at her, then slowly does so. He locks eyes with her gas mask the entire way, hoping to impress upon her not only his size but also the depth of his hatred for her. He tries to convey with only his unblinking eyes and the jutting of his jaw that he knows exactly how many legion lives she has claimed and how, if not for her, Caesar would rule New Vegas by now.

 

The tricky thing about a mask, however, is that if she did notice and deign to react, he can’t see it.

 

Instead, she reaches into her right breast pocket and withdraws a small, silver key. With it, she unlocks his hands and legs, then returns it to its hiding place. Silus rubs his wrists.

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“About what?” she says, putting things into presumably his backpack.

 

“About who you were. Did Boyd not know?”

 

“Oh, that. I thought you’d figure it out soon enough. She said you were fairly intelligent.”

 

He somehow suspected that the spiteful soldier had not phrased it thusly.

 

“I trust these are not needed?” she says, holding up the manacles.

 

Silus only snorts in reply.

 

“Very well.” She puts them in her backpack along with the strangely glowing syringes and ammunition. “Last chance to change clothes.”

 

Silus picks up the backpack she put next to him and slings it over one shoulder… on top of the armor.

 

“As you like. To the back door now.”

 

Through the master bedroom was a garish hole in the wall and another elevator that took them down again to street level and into a back alley. She led him through some complicated turns, a gate made out of a bus, and eventually out onto the long 15, walking steadily away from the bright lights of New Vegas. They pass a roadside motel, a rock crushing plant, and a few abandoned farms when Silus’s feet stop. He doesn’t recall wanting to stop walking, but here he is, in the middle of the wrecked road, staring out at the dark, empty desert. It’s not clear how long he stands there, gazing out into the wasteland, but he realizes that Courier Six is gently stroking his back.

 

“Where would you go?”

 

Silus breathes softly. She correctly ascertained that he was considering just walking off into the dark. Maybe it would be a worthwhile risk to run as fast as possible from the deadliest woman in Nevada rather than follow her to your greatest humiliation. On the other hand, Caesar would never accept him back. He didn’t kill himself to protect state secrets like his men, who knew better than to become bargaining chips. He spent who knows how long in NCR custody, spilling all his worldly knowledge to the enemy. Even if he were taken back after all that, there would always be the cloud of suspicion upon him. It could never be like it was before.

 

There is also a chance he could make it on his own. Find a shack, set up shop, hunt for his dinner, and forever be paranoid of passing travelers learning his secret. A great centurion, reduced to scavenging and subsistence farming. His pride deflates in his chest. Is this who you are now, Silus? A refugee from your own people?

 

“C’mon,” says the Courier with one last pat. “It’s a long way.”

 

xXx

 

He won’t do it.

 

He won’t admit it.

 

Even though every step is like fire upon his skin and he has no more water to sweat, he CANNOT ask Courier Six for the clothes in her bag.

 

He pointlessly licks his cracked lips and scans the road again. Dry lakebed to the right… dry lakebed to the left… not a breath of wind or trees for miles to escape the baking heat. They turned from the Long 15 a few hours back, when the sun had not yet shown its vindictive face over the mountains, and were stumbling now along a train track set between the mountains that divided the 15 and the 93. Except that now, the tracks had turned away from the cooler altitude and descended straight into the 12th circle of hell where bad centurions went to suffer.

 

The Courier, by contrast, doesn’t seem to notice that the earth is the temperature of molten cheese. She has not removed a stitch of clothing despite the layers of leather making it completely unbreathable. Silus stares a hole into the back of her armor. He realizes that he hasn’t seen any part of her yet; not skin, not hair, not even eyes. It could be an automaton under the long coat and he would never know.

 

“We’re going to be walking until dark, you know.” Six slowed her pace until she was half a step ahead of him.

 

“By all the gods and stars… why?”

 

“Because that’s how far it is.”

 

“Don’t you ever give a complete answer??”

 

“Don’t you ever ask the question you mean?”

 

“STOP TALKING!!! WOMAN, DON’T YOU EVER STOP HAVING THE LAST WORD? What is the DISEASE you have that prevents you from BEING A PERSON? Don’t you get mad or happy or tired or hot? Are you a fucking person at all?? What do you WANT FROM ME???”

 

Silus is kneeling in the sand. His metal greaves are full of the stuff now, scratching his knees, but he can hardly feel it for the hot blood pounding in his ears, temples, and hard-clenched fists. The courier stands silent, watching. She waits until he gasps himself into control again, then holds out one hand. Silus looks at it and stands without taking it, but there’s no spite in it at all.

 

“Do you feel better?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you want to change clothes?”

 

“...yes.”

 

“Then here, take them. Leave your armor here, under this rock. It will be lighter now.”

 

Silus does as he’s told and follows her away.

 

xXx

 

It is indeed after dark when the pair can stop for the night. Their destination turns out to be a ranch house built on a small hill in the bend of the 93. Two bridges connect a few of the little peaks in the ridge and a lazy windmill almost-turns in the wind. Once the climb the road, Silus sees a short fence around some corn and tatos as well as a water cistern. A piece of wood over the front door says “Wolfhorn.” Courier Six pushes open the door and holds it for Silus enter also.

 

It’s not the biggest house ever. Certainly, the resort housing by Hoover Dam and the legion mansions in Flagstaff are much more impressive, but Silus has also seen some of the hovels that the profligates call home and this tin shack surpasses them all. This has space for distinct cooking, living, and sleeping areas. The bed has two mattresses stacked on it and is made with a large quilt. There is a threadbare, but well-cared-for couch, and a table with two mismatched chairs. Beside the wood stove in the kitchen area is a metal shelf bearing many familiar cans and packaged foods, to which the Courier is now adding.

 

Silus stands awkwardly. He pushes back the beige hood that protected his face from further burning and lets his backpack drop to the floor, but otherwise he can’t determine what he should be doing. If it were his own home, he would recline on the couch while slaves brought refreshment and entertainment, but that doesn’t seem appropriate here. He settles for crossing his arms and looking imperious while the Courier finishes sorting, then straightens and dusts off her hands.

 

“Sit at the table.”

 

Silus sits on the couch.

 

“I am going to talk to you. It will be at the table.”

 

“I can hear you from here.”

 

The gas mask points toward him, pausing, then nods slightly. “Would you like to know why I bought you or are you going to assume it’s due to your agreeable nature?”

 

Silus snorts, the first genuine feeling of humor he’s had in a long while. “I know it has something to do with Boyd and righteous revenge for crimes against your sex…”

 

“No. It doesn’t. I certainly have opinions about your misogynistic beliefs, but none of those factor into why I purchased you.”

 

Then she reaches up and unbuckles her gas mask.

 

She is a plain-looking woman. Right number of eyes, commonly shaped, if a bit crooked nose, shock of poorly groomed hair etc. She wasn’t going to be the headliner of Gomorrah, that’s for sure, but a man would have to work hard to find something to complain about regarding her bone structure. The only thing that stands out is the scar.

 

An intricate spiderweb of pale scar tissue blossoms from a place directly between her left temple and her left eye. It criss-crosses her face from nose to ear, leaving no feature between untouched. Even her eye appears to have a thin streak of pink joining one trail to another across the iris. Everyone knows where she got it. The two-timing Benny, head of those thugs in checked suits, the Chairmen, shot her twice in the head and left her for dead in the Goodsprings cemetery. It was only by the grace of the gods that she lived long enough to be dragged from the ground and stitched back together. Silus looks upon her until he is satisfied. He sees that when she blinks, the left eye is one second slower and the left side of her mouth, tighter. Her entire face is stiff, but more disturbingly, completely devoid of emotion. She seems to lack self-consciousness as he stares openly, only gazing back.

 

“I bought you because I can give you what you need.”

 

“Are the Vegas girls still using that line? Trying to swindle me out of my paycheck are you, sweetheart?”

 

“No… that’s what you _want_ ,” she corrects, setting down the mask and stepping up to the couch. Quicker than a flash, she seizes him by the throat, just gently enough to prevent him from choking to death. Her thumb presses firmly into his jugular, which begins to pound in protest. His vision swims, his mouth feels swollen… he tries to lean back to relieve the pressure, but she squeezes harder and he stops at once. Her strong, slim hand pulls him up and forward, which forces him to stand and walk to the table. When he feels like he is on the very edge of consciousness, she releases him and he drops into a chair at the table he defiantly rejected earlier.

 

He looks up at her and realizes something very dangerous about himself. Her displays of strength, her refusal to respond to his insults and prodding, her skill with weapons and hand-to-hand combat not only make her an exceedingly challenging adversary…

 

…they also make her terribly desirable. Silus imagines her strength and finesse channeled into the bedroom, the intensity of her words translated into a single-minded mission of carnal desire, and her skillful hands touching him wherever and however they please… She would know both how to bring him to the edge, and how to take her own pleasure from his body. He realizes that he is grateful that she made him sit when she did because his cock has never been harder in his life.

  
She leans down and looks directly into his eyes. “You see? I can give you what you _need._ ”


	2. Breaking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silus and Courier Six try their hands at farming and living together. Life, as expected, has a few hurdles for them.

Their days took on a comfortable structure. In the morning, they would rise and make coffee and breakfast; usually leftovers heated with oats to make pottage. She tended to be quiet in the morning… well, quieter than usual, which was strange. Silus was used to a brisk, 5-mile march before a protein-laden meal served by fawning, trembling women, then a day of training and evening of… leisure. At the farm, every day was a long, back-breaking day of manual labor.

 

Courier Six established their jobs and expectations quickly. While outside, she donned a hood and goggles like the ones she gave him, which both protected her face and mostly obscured her scar. She gave him short, simple instructions to follow that resulted in deceptively long tasks.

 

“Move the fertilizer over here,” took two hours. “Clean out the cistern,” took four. Silus raged inside for her presumption, but was secretly glad to be up and moving rather than sitting in an empty cell, atrophying.

 

Meanwhile, she fed her pair of brahmin and milked them. She watered and aerated the soil of all the planting beds. She washed and scrubbed inside the house and out. Vegetables were picked and meat dried. Tobacco was cut up and shelves were organized. It slowly became apparent to Silus that she saw this place not as a base of operations, but as a home. It boggled his mind. The deadliest woman west of the Colorado, a profligate of the highest order, the Vegas whore… was a contented farmer?

 

On the first day, he refused to work. He sat in a chair on the front porch all day in his beige hood and watched her pull worms off the vegetable and tobacco leaves; her nimble fingers working quickly, finally out of their leather gauntlets. He drank his fill of water, even took a nap during the hottest part of the day by pulling the hood over his eyes, but when evening came, she ate a mutfruit for herself and gave him nothing at all. He accepted this readily as the price for his defiance and felt prideful. The house was quiet that night, only the crackling of the stove fire and the occasional giant mantis chirping to break the silence. He sat sprawled across a chair at the table, gazing into the glowing log.

 

“Kneel here,” she said, indicating the floor in front of the couch where she sits, holding a rifle cleaning tool and examining it critically.

 

Despite himself, Silus had been bored watching her work and now he was hungry, too. It’s no small motivating factor in his decision to play along. He sauntered over slowly to show her that he is humoring her, not jumping to obey. He took one knee and overdramatically bowed his head as if she were the god Mars himself, smiling impudently all the while.

 

“You kneel poorly.”

 

His head jerked up, confused and also offended.

 

“Get on both knees. Curl your toes under and rest your weight on your heels. Your hands will be palm down on your thighs, fingers spread open.” The Courier had removed her goggles, hood, and leather coat. Underneath was a worn white tunic falling open a little at the neck and muted green trousers. She was wearing her usual combat boots, but they had been cleaned and polished since their work outside. When did Silus miss that?

 

She made no comment on his slowness to obey, simply watched and waited with that blank expression on her scarred face. He thought she might sit there forever and almost decided to stick it out, but became suddenly aware that by kneeling before her he had brought his exposed neck within arm’s reach. He did not want a repeat of last night’s treatment, and even if he hadn’t come closer, he thought with dawning horror, she was armed and armored and he was not. He had done exactly the thing a centurion should know better than to do… make himself vulnerable in enemy territory.

 

At last, he slid onto two knees, held up his weight with the balls of his feet under his buttocks, and lay his hands upon his thighs, fingers wide.

 

“Good boy,” she said with a strange purr in the back of her throat.

 

“Hmph,” he grunted, not meeting her staring eyes.

 

“The correct response is ‘thank you, ma’am'. I believe Lieutenant Boyd informed you when we met.”

 

Silus said nothing. He only glared harder at the floor.

 

“We can work on that later, boy. For now, I expect you to look at me when we talk.”

 

Silus readily turned his glare on her vacant, homely face. She seemed unconcerned by this and gestured to the wall behind the couch. There were many hooks in a neat, symmetrical line from which hung many objects unusual to a farmstead but familiar to Silus. A riding crop, a bullwhip, a thin, flexible cane, a cat-o-nine tails... They were ordered very precisely and Silus recognized their high quality. He had time to wonder whether she had purchased them, made them, or stolen them from Legion corpses when she spoke again.

 

“You are filled with poison,” she said. “The poison of hatred, arrogance, and violence. Before you can earn your personhood back, we must purge this poison from you, bit by bit. You will tell me everything the Legion has to say about women, profligates, slaves, and enemies and together, we will draw out your hatred like the venom of a snake.” She reached behind her and pulled down a many-tailed whip from the wall, not unlike the one he himself had used on unfit captures and disobedient women. It had a handsome leather wrapped handle and a weight affixed to the end like a pommel. Each fall was made of coarse braided leather that ended in a long point. She let him look at it for a long moment, then stood and walked behind him.

 

“Take off your shirt.”

 

Silus stared at the place where she had just been sitting. He had no illusions about her intentions, she was deliberate enough in her actions, he was just at an impasse. If he removed his shirt, was that silent acceptance? If he didn’t, would she do it anyway? If he stood and turned in one motion, maybe he could grab her before she could get to a gun. He could knock her out, throw her down… and then what? Be in the same unwinnable situation as before?

 

“Boy, make a choice,” she said, not impatiently.

 

He took a quick, irritated breath, held it... and then sighed deeply and pulled off his baggy brown tunic. Her hand, warm and calloused from labor, touched him softly between his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes in order to feel the differing pressure between the tips of her fingers and the heel of her palm. A gasp choked in his throat. When was the last time someone had touched him gently? At his mother’s breast?

 

“Good. Now, tell me what you’ve said. Make your confessions.”

 

Silus felt the bile rise in his mouth. The words were easy and came at once. “You are a fucking degenerate whore.”

 

_CRACK_

 

The flogger struck down upon his back with a shock like lightning. Enraged, Silus leapt to his feet, fists raised and seeing red. He rounded on Courier Six, ready to deliver tenfold what she had just given to him but she stood tall with squared shoulders and met his gaze with steady, hard eyes.

 

“Is this the strength of Caesar? A centurion who cannot stomach even a single blow for all his prowess in combat?”

 

“I know what you are doing, woman. I will not be _goaded_ into submission.”

 

“Is that so? You will not farm, you will not think, you will not work, and you will not submit. What good are you?”

 

Silus loomed over her and roared, “I AM A CENTURION! I am the BLESSED and most TRUSTED of Caesar, king of men! I have taken the lives of countless profligates and laid waste to their homes, their lands, their cattle, and women, then thrust their heads onto pikes before their worthless capture families. Is that why you are doing this? Did we enslave your children? Slaughter your family before your eyes? You? You’re nothing. You’re a mercenary. You’re a walking corpse. You hit like a bedridden old woman. Your arm will break long before I do.” He was panting hard for air, fists shaking in the air, still facing her impassive expression. “Cedo. Nulli… cedo nulli.”

 

Courier Six breathed evenly through her slightly crooked nose. Someone broke it years ago, he thinks, and never set it properly. He’d like to shake the hand of the man that did it. She licked her lips once before speaking, her quick, pink tongue darting out to touch her thin lips. His eyes locked onto her mouth to center himself before his knees gave out.

 

“Caesar is not coming for you. You are anathema to them, a traitor. The NCR would see your body swinging from a noose, as would every man, woman, and child in New Vegas. I am your only friend, Silus.” She reached out and took his chin in her slender hand. “I am the only person who cares that you live.”

 

It was true. Silus could not say a single word against it. The longer he thought about it, the more his anger bled away, turning to shame. He felt his shoulders sag and his hands slowly uncurl. Without thinking, he turned his face into her palm, closing his eyes so he can’t see her pity.

 

“You have done well,” she said. “Kneel once more as I have taught you and we shall purge your anger.”

 

That night, she beat him until he wept with fury. He cursed as the blows fell, spoke more words of hate and violence directed at her, at the NCR, at his disloyal, forsaken legionaries, and at his perfect, arrogant, untouchable Caesar. He let the words flow freely, shouting as if the objects of his vitriol were standing outside the door, listening to his blasphemies and yet daring them to come stop him.

 

She touched his cheek again at the end and handed him a mason jar of clean, unpolluted water. “I am proud of you,” she said with no hint of ridicule. “Tomorrow, we will try again.” Then she left him on the couch and lay on the mattress on the other side of the shack. Silus sipped the water, then fell asleep immediately.

 

xXx

 

Today, they are building a fence. Courier Six has told him of her plan to capture and bring back a pair of bighorners from an abandoned homestead half a day’s walk east. The fresh meat would be a welcome addition to an unending diet of jerky and cornmeal biscuits soaked in gravy and the horns and fur can be used for a variety of needed household goods. First, though, they must rearrange planks and strips of corrugated steel to create a holding pen with a gate.

 

Silus thinks often about that first night together, him kneeling on the ground and her standing behind, wielding the leather flogger. It is a picture that has been recreated every night since, but the first left the biggest impression on him for a number of reasons. Normally, the strength of his fury was enough to make even the toughest recruits shake in their hobnailed boots, but she faced him head on and didn’t flinch. She even had the tenacity to speak true words and comfort him. It is confusing.

 

He looks at her back, flexed with the effort of nailing a board in place and wonders. He imagines pushing her face down on the couch and stripping away her pants to find her dripping and waiting. His cock twitches just thinking about plunging deep into her folds and forcing the kind of noise from her that means she is straining to open wide enough for him. Silus would take her by the hair and hold her steady for him to thrust into and withdraw slowly again and again until she whimpers his name…

 

He shakes his head to clear the image. Those kinds of thoughts are coming more and more frequently now. Silus is sure that it’s because she’s the only woman for miles and he longs to turn the tables on her, to make her drop to her knees and await her own punishment with an open mouth and fluttering pink tongue… goddamnit, stop that. Irritably, he seizes a bale of chicken wire and uncoils some to tie the gate together. He cuts his palm in the process and quietly thanks Mars for some kind of distraction… _any_ distraction so he can walk away from the woman who drives him wild with desire.

 

A little water splashed on his palm stings but washes away the dirt and a thin trail of blood. There are a few strips of cloth inside that have been sanitized and hemmed into bandages, so he goes there and takes one from the first aid box to wrap up the cut.

 

 _Get it together,_ he thinks savagely. _She is the_ enemy. _She is an immoral profligate and she is humiliating you with her blasphemous dominance and violence on your person. What is wrong with you? Are you really so desperate that you would lie with_ her _of all women?_

 

Silus looks around the shack that they share and realizes that for the first time since McCarren, he is alone. The Courier has been by his side day and night until now, watching his every move. He quickly shuts the little red box of medical supplies and stands. In the house are two tall lockers and a steamer trunk. He knows that the trunk is filled with clothes, blankets and spare shoes, but he has yet to look inside the lockers. With a quick look at the door to be sure she isn’t about to burst in, he approaches one and stealthily slides the latch open.

 

His eyes nearly pop out of his head. It’s a cache of weapons Legate Lanius could be envious of. Big guns, little guns, exotic swords, power bracers, and an entire bag of frag grenades fill every inch from top to bottom. He can’t possibly count them all without taking some out and he isn’t sure he’d ever get them stacked back inside if he did.

 

A sudden noise outside the shack makes him jump. It sounds like gunfire and yelling. He should go see what is happening, but a chance like this might not occur again for weeks, so he turns back to the locker and searches quickly. He carefully extracts a knife just small enough to slip into his leg wrappings and closes the locker tightly. He swings his leg extra hard to make sure that the knife won’t accidentally fall out, then sprints to the door.

 

Outside stands Courier Six facing down a mismatched raider team of six clearly armed people, mostly men, but at least two women. At least… Silus thinks they’re women. The disheveled armor makes it difficult to tell, though each wears a piece with the severed head of a dog outlined in tape or with a sewn patch as decoration. Jackals. The Courier is not wearing her leather duster nor her protective gauntlets. She has no weapon in her hands nor strapped to her back, yet she stands tall and holds her arms in readiness.

 

“I will do no such thing,” replies the Courier in a loud, steady voice. “Our work is our own and you will have none of it. Be gone with you.”

 

The raiders all laugh maliciously. This must be a conversation they have had many times before.

 

“You there, big man,” calls a taller male who might be the leader. “Maybe you can talk some sense into your bitch. We’re hungry and tired. All we’re asking for is some hospitality, isn’t that right? A little food and water… Maybe a turn with your old lady tonight and we won’t burn this sorry scrap heap to the ground.” His followers agree noisily with lewd gestures directed towards Courier Six.

 

Despite what some New Vegas residents might think, Caesar’s Legion has always believed that thieving raiders are lower than the worst criminal worms. Strung out on putrescent chems, answering to no one and nothing, raiders are the example given to recruits to show what a lack of order and discipline will become. Silus stands tall with his shoulders back and doesn’t hesitate.

 

He roars like a lion scenting prey and charges forward, smashing the ambitious swindler to the ground with a _crunch_ that sounds like broken bones. Without dropping his arms, he spins a quick half turn and plows his fist into the raider beside him before they can even raise their gun. That man, too, crumples to the ground.

 

“Shit, shit! Fire! Take him down!”

 

Bullets whizz through the air and make a tremendous racket as they bounce off the corrugated steel shack. Silus barely sees Courier Six drop to the ground in time for a rebound bullet lodge itself in its originator’s throat, spraying blood on the desert sand. He knocks the weapon out of their loose hand and turns it upon another assailant, firing over and over until the pistol clicks empty. He then slams the butt of it into the raider’s face and watches the light leave their eyes with immense satisfaction.

 

_Pew. Pew. Pew._

 

Six has gotten her hands on a rifle of theirs. In three clean shots, she puts down the remaining Jackal gang raiders and lets the barrel of the weapon drop. The entire fight was over in under a minute. The victorious pair looks at each other dumbly, sizing the other up through the settling dust.

 

“You’re bleeding,” says Courier Six, gesturing with the rifle.

 

Silus calmly regards his split knuckles. “It’s nothing.”

 

She nods and looks at the bodies. “We should dispose of these. The fence and bighorners can wait one more day.”

 

He shrugs and sets about carrying the corpses off Wolfhorn Ranch proper. Courier Six checks each one and strips them of wearable clothing, bottlecaps, ammunition, and other vitals, then stores them in an empty planter to deal with later. After, she rakes the sand where the fight took place, obscuring dark patches of blood and bullet casings. When they’re done, a passerby would hardly notice that a disturbance occurred at all.

 

Six turns to go inside and Silus follows. She removes her hood and goggles and he sees that her face is unusually pale, but she goes about preparing a meal as though nothing about today had been out of the ordinary. He thinks about the first night again and the simple gesture she gave him. An empty mason jar waits by the dish basin. He takes it out to the cistern, fills it with crisp well water and sets it on the table nearest the stove. She is concentrating intently on starting a new fire inside and doesn’t see the water until Silus is on the other side of the room, sitting innocently on the couch. She looks from the water to him and back again, then takes it and drinks deeply.

 

A little prickle of satisfaction curls in Silus’ chest. Maybe it’s from taking charge or maybe it’s from catching her off guard, but either way, he allows himself a smug little smirk and leans back to await dinner.

 

It is dark when his eyes open again. Only a few embers still glow in the stove. He sits straight up and sees the Courier laying down on the mattress, chest rising and falling evenly in sleep. He must have dozed off and she didn’t wake him. No floggings tonight, apparently. She even left out a plate of jerky, potato, and onion stew with a hard cornbread biscuit for him on the table. Silus’ stomach growls insistently. It’s lukewarm but stands no chance against his hunger. He finishes it unashamedly in several enormous mouthfuls.

 

Satisfied, he stands and stretches hugely, then pauses. A prick in his leg reminds him that he still has the knife he took earlier. He reaches into his leg wrappings and pulls it out, blade glowing in the dim light. He looks from the blade to the sleeping Courier. An image of Silus the subsistence farmer rises to the surface of his mind, not lauded and powerful like he was before with the Legion, but a man in charge of his own destiny nonetheless. Free to sleep and wake when he pleases, free to eat however much he likes and fuck whomever he wants. A real place of his own alone in the desert. All it would take is killing her with one, swift cut to her throat…

 

He approaches the bed cautiously, avoiding the creaky floorboards. The difference in height between her laying form and his standing one is so great he must kneel before her once more to line up the blade. Silus rolls it in one hand, then the other, trying to get the handle to feel right. He has to shake his long black hair from his eyes a few times and take a deep, calming breath before he feels ready to strike, but then looks down and his blood runs cold.

 

Her open eyes gleam in the dying firelight. She has been watching him, though he doesn’t know how long. She is gazing steadily into his face. Maybe she doesn’t see the knife? No, that would be a ridiculous presumption. Silus opens his mouth to explain, but no words can be found that would make sense, so he closes it again with a click of teeth.

 

Slowly, she sits up. Now they are face to face, breathing slowly and gazing at one another. Silus is still holding the knife. What seemed obvious and easy while she slept seems much less so when she is awake and looking at him like that… her shining eyes half-lidded with sleep… her lips just slightly parted, inviting...

 

“Here,” she whispers, “Lay here.” She slides away which creates a space on the bed big enough for him. Then, she lays back down herself and closes her eyes. She is asleep again in a moment.

 

Centurion Silus lets out the breath he was holding. He puts the knife on the ground and crawls onto the mattress, which creaks softly. He mentally shakes his head at his own weakness and gradually falls asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cedo Nulli: I yield to no one.


	3. Opening Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life proceeds on the ranch. Silus learns to deal with his situation... not quite well enough.

CHAPTER 3: Opening up

 

After the raider incident, Courier Six expands the responsibilities Silus is allowed to handle. They do, eventually, go and get the bighorners, ending up with four new animals instead of two. Luckily the extras are babies and will voluntarily stay close to the pen if the mother is kept there, munching on dried yucca stalks. Silus now feeds them morning and night and occasionally checks their hooves for rocks and other irritants.

 

He watches the enormous cow chew wetly with mild disgust. He is feeling corn to see whether the ears are ripe enough to pick. His basket is nearly full and Six is planning on showing him how to can tonight. She is hanging bunches of tobacco upside down to dry. It’s strange because she doesn’t appear to smoke at all, but there’s dry-cut tobacco in repainted coffee tins all over the ranch. It reminds him of Boyd’s filthy cigarettes and he refuses to touch the stuff.

 

A cloud of dust catches his attention. It hovers over the road that connects the Long 15 to the 93, curling lazily. It’s not enough to warrant alarm of attack, but it’s so quiet in this corner of southern Nevada that any disturbance at all is noteworthy.

 

“Incoming, from the east,” Silus says in a military clip. The report feels comfortable, normal. It relieves some tension from his shoulders.

 

Six looks where he indicates, eyes narrowed with focus down the scraggly byway. She must recognize what it is because she suddenly holds her head straighter and stands tall. The last bunch of tobacco leaves is hastily hung and she disappears inside their shack, banging the door closed with atypical carelessness.

 

The tension in Silus’ neck and shoulders returns at once. What fresh horror is this? Is she actually planning on passing along his ownership to a slave caravan? Is it a band of assassins here to end his dishonor? It is… NCR refugees? Silus shakes his head. _You’re overreacting. It’s a tiny puff of dust and she is merely taking precautions. Be a man about this._ But despite himself, he keeps looking at the door of the shack and feeling his hip for a gun that isn’t there.

 

She still hasn’t returned when the thing making the dust is finally close enough to see. It’s a trader and his pack brahmin, slowly lumbering down the road. Silus feels angry and foolish and busies himself again with the corn. He accidentally crushes a few ears before deciding to put the whole thing down and hammer a salvage sheet of metal onto the new storage shed. He swings the hammer with all of his strength, producing a deafening CLANG with each nail. It feels good. He pretends that each nail is being driven into the wrist of a criminal… a drug dealer… a degenerate whore… an insubordinate hedonistic promiscuous immoral spineless….

 

“Hey, mister! Hey! HEY!!”

 

Silus’ swing misses and the hammer goes flying off into the desert. He looks at his empty hand for a moment, then at the trader who is standing well back from him. His eyes are wide, staring uncertainly at the sight before him.

 

“Yeah, uh, hey. Is Six at home?”

 

Like she was summoned by magic, Courier Six appears at the door, arms full of packages. She rushes down the slope, nearly stumbling, and speaking in a rush, trying to keep her hood and goggles straight and failing. “Antoni! You’re here. I was wondering if something was keeping you… We’ve only been here a few weeks and I thought… well, I must have just missed you before. Here, hold this,” she thrusts a box full of rattling ~~coffee~~ tobacco tins at the trader, drops a basket of cleaned and carded bighorner wool to the ground, and urgently fishes in her leather coat. She withdraws three bulging envelopes, with names written on them in an immaculate, firm hand; Veronica, Arcade, and Boone. “Is there any word?” she says, breathlessly, handing them over.

 

“Here, they gave me some things.” He takes the letters, then unbuckles a leather carrier pouch from the brahmin and hands it to her. “And I found this for you. I know you’ve been on the lookout…” From a different place, he pulls out a thin, rectangular package no bigger than Silus’ hand wrapped carefully in waxed brown paper. Shyly, he offers it to Courier Six, whose eyes immediately lock onto it. She all but snatches it from his hands and peels the paper away to reveal…

 

“Thoreau… You… you found one.” Her goggles point unwaveringly at the glossy, peeling words on the cover: On Walden Pond. “Where did you find it?” she says, reverently opening the cover and leafing through the yellowing pages.

 

The trader’s wide eyes crinkle at the corners, and his face beginning to flush. “There was a bunker… Most of the books were ash, but this was behind a sealed door…”

 

Silus takes this opportunity to go find the hammer. He rolls his shoulders as he walks, trying to loosen the iron girder in his shoulders. He finds this… conversation irritating and the little man should depart as quickly as he came. Six is _clearly_ having the time of her life over something as ridiculous as a few letters and an old book that isn’t destroyed and furthermore, if she’s this excited about it, then this _Thorough_ person must write pornographic trash. And since you mention it, so is the miserable refuse that brought it and made her become an uncharacteristically talkative tramp.

 

The hammer, it turns out, landed in a lizard hole several yards past the shed. Silus can see the handle sticking out of the ground. Still fuming, he seizes the handle and pulls with all his strength pulling up not only the hammer but half the dirt of the hole as well, showering himself in tiny rocks and sand. He shakes his long black hair and rubs his stinging eyes harder than necessary, bringing on strange colored flashes in his vision. He perfunctorily brushes himself off with one clenched not-fist and turns back, seething.

 

The trader is standing very close to her now, not that she seems to notice. He is actually a little shorter than her, with his head nearly resting on her shoulder to read alongside her, still talking and blinking his wide eyes. He might be describing the book more, relaying the disgusting morals within, or he might only be telling her the weather, but Silus has seen the way a man fawns over a woman he desires and he can’t stand the way this man can’t spit it out and claim her. Rather than pathetically draping himself across her space, a real man would take her by the hair, threading his fingers through it and gripping her quite close to her scalp.  He stalks back to them, heavy strides bring up new puffs of dirt.

 

“There’s another unexplored bunker to the north, nearly on the coast. I’ve had a tip that it could be full of chems and medical tools.” says the trader in a solicitous tone. “It’s easy to miss and I’ve been working on a way to…”

 

“We don’t want any!” he snarls, towering over the malnourished trader. Years of training and generous meals have given Silus a foot-and-a-half height advantage and probably 100 lbs of muscle on the unctuous vermin, all of which he brings to bear with gross intimidation.

 

The air freezes. “Silus.”

 

Courier Six doesn’t raise her voice. She looks unblinkingly at the centurion, which he can only just see through the tinting of her glasses. The book is still in her hands, open and unstirring; even its delicate paper pages don’t tremble. He rounds on her interruption. “He’s clearly just trying to…”

 

“Remove yourself,” she says, cutting across him.

 

“I’m only going to…” says Silus, even louder.

 

“Remove. Yourself.”

 

He opens his mouth to make new arguments, then shuts it again with a snap. The set of her shoulders throws new fuel on the biting acid in the pit of his stomach. Silus draws himself up again to his full height and leaves once more, clipping the trader with his elbow as he goes by. The man nearly falls to the ground from the force of it, to Silus’ immense satisfaction.

 

“I must deal with this presently,” says Courier Six to the bewildered trader behind his retreating back. “I thank you for your time and attention. Here is the tobacco I promised and some wool to shop around. Maybe a good price can be…”

 

BANG

 

Silus slams the shack door behind him hard enough to rattle the objects inside. He paces restlessly for a few moments, then throws himself on the couch, which creaks in protest. _Degenerate_ , he thinks fiercely, trying to rub the sand from his eyes again. _Filth… weakling… out of control… have you no honor?_ He doesn’t even know who he’s angry with anymore. Maybe it’s everyone. Maybe it’s himself. He rests his face in his hands and slumps over, trying to quiet his mind.

 

The door opens and shuts. Six has a heavy basket of traded items that she sets on the table before coming to stand before the couch.

 

“Up.”

 

Silus’ legs obey before his ears hear her. She is standing so close… he looks straight down at her blank face, goggles still obscuring her scar. Heat radiates from her.

 

“That was an embarrassment,” she says evenly. “Explain yourself.”

 

Silus seizes upon the first thing that comes to mind. “He called you Six! Does everyone know that you live here? What safety is there in hiding in a place where everyone can find…”

 

“No.”

 

“He was clearly trying to make you trust him, getting close and doing personal favors for you; he could be a spy…”

 

“No.”

 

“He was disrespecting you!” shouts Silus in frustration. “If you were his superior officer, you would have backhanded him and crushed his jaw beneath your heel to send him back to the stinking pile of excrement from which he came!”

 

Six doesn’t answer this time, just gazes up at him. At length, she nods and removes her goggles, letting them hang around her neck. There is a strange sparkle in her plain, round eyes that Silus has never seen before and can’t identify.

 

“I’m not angry that you… defended my honor.”

 

“I didn’t! I never…”

 

“I _am_ angry,” she continued relentlessly, “that you made me repeat myself.”

 

Whatever it was that he didn’t do froze on the tip of his tongue. He stopped to think and realized that she had, indeed, told him to leave the conversation twice. In the Legion, that was also a punishable offense, a crime that every legionary had committed at least once to immediate and agonizing consequences. He tries to think of something to say that would pardon him, but it feels just as useless to reason with her as it did to reason with Caesar. Instead, he drops ungracefully to one knee and bows his head awaiting a gauntleted cuff or a kick to the ribs for his impertinence.

 

“Choose one.” Silus looks up. She is gesturing to the wall behind the couch where her instruments of torture hang in a row. He hesitates and she presses him again. “Choose one for your punishment.”

 

Somehow, this is worse than being insulted and buffeted by a commanding officer. He stands and scans his choices. The cane raises blistering welts all the way across one’s back while the riding crop makes little triangles on the buttocks that sting for hours. Six uses the heavy flogger on every part of him hard enough to bruise and the maple baseball bat makes him feel like his bones are going to burst right out of his body. There is only one tool on the wall that she has not used upon him yet. He looks once more at her face. She is waiting. He thinks for one moment longer, then reaches out and takes the bullwhip.

 

To be as precise as possible, it is not a proper bullwhip. The tightly wrapped leather single-tail is only as long as his arm and tipped with a little strip of silk. The handle is only a knob of hard rubber that she takes between her first two fingers to examine his choice. She nods with approval.

 

“Now, you will thank me for the opportunity to correct your behavior.”

 

Silus stiffens and presses his teeth together. Her hard stare indicates that she is not joking. She is _never_ joking. “Thank you,” he says, hardly moving his lips, “for the _opportunity_ to correct my behavior.” He feels his eye twitch with the effort of controlling himself. His fist _longs_ to knock out her teeth.

 

“Remove your shirt and kneel on the couch facing the wall.”

 

He turns away quickly so she can’t see the color of his face. It feels hot with outrage and shame. At least when Caesar sentenced you to thirty lashes, you didn’t have to thank him for the privilege. You just took your beating like a man and moved on. Once more, he bares his back to her and kneels on the couch. He hears a few whistles through the air behind him. She must be calibrating her throw. It makes the hair on his neck prickle with horrible anticipation.

 

“You have earned ten lashes,” she informs him. “I expect you to count them aloud.”

 

Now this really is too much. Silus turns around and begins his protest, but then freezes. She has also removed her shirt and today, she wasn’t wearing chest bindings.

 

He stares agape at her bare breasts, round and high on her lean, muscular frame. They are heavy, but rise and fall with her deep breaths, swinging a little as she stretches her shoulders in preparation. The nipples are darkly colored and completely erect, the little buds pointing out at precise angles. Silus is acutely aware that he has neither seen nor fucked a woman in months, so he is subsisting on the paltry scraps of affection she throws his way and it is taking its toll. His eyes flick up to her face. She is not at all self-conscious about her exposure. She just waits for him to be done with looking and turn back once more to the wall. He even swears that for a moment, one side of her mouth twitches and she stretches extra slowly to allow her breasts to swing all the more freely while he watches, growing harder by the second. The pride of Caesar’s military, Centurion Silus closes his mouth and grips the back of the couch.

 

_Ffffft!_

 

The whip makes barely a noise as it slices through the air, but the scream of pain on his left side tears through Silus like a machete through a mighty baobab. The pain blossoms through him, curling in agonizing waves until his eyes thrum, still tightly closed.

 

“Breathe and count.”

 

Silus gasps. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. “One,” he says, shakily.

 

_Ffffft!_

 

The same cutting sensation carves up his right side and leaves in its wake another overwhelming burst of pain. All he can say for it is that at least the feeling is symmetrical now. “Two.”

 

_Ffffft!_

 

The return to the left side is so much worse than he could have imagined. Instead of simply adding another mark to his back, the pain intensifies, bleeding together with the fading impression of the first. The fire of his first lash is rekindled in full, almost too painful to even draw a yell or a curse from him. There are no other thoughts possible beyond how many more lashes there are yet to endure. “Th-three.”

 

_Ffffft!_

 

What even is a back anymore? “Four.”

 

_Ffffft!_

 

He doesn’t want to say it. If he says it, there’s another coming. He doesn’t want another. He has to say it. “...Five.”

 

_Ffffft!_

 

“SIX!” he yells, arching his back to escape a particularly well-aimed lash, but there is no escape, not from her arm.

 

_Ffffft!_

 

“SEVEN!!” He can hardly feel the individual lash. One touch and the spiderweb of welts all activate with sparkling electricity. His lips are going numb.

 

_Ffffft!_

 

“E… e… eight!” Survive. Just survive. He sways a little with each ragged breath.

 

_Ffffft!_

 

“...nine…” His voice is barely a whisper.

 

_Ffffft!_

 

“...ten.” It’s over. That was the last. He unlocks his hands from the back of the couch. His grip was so strong it has torn the fabric and bent the wood. Thankfully, there are no splinters in his fingers.

 

“You’re welcome,” she says, comforting and soft. “Stay kneeling a little longer.”

 

He hears the sound of the metal first aid kit’s latch undone. A tinkle of glass and her heat returns. His body has sagged considerably from exhaustion. Silus feels like he is floating, incorporeal. The pain is finally fading away from its insistent beating drum. Now he just throbs in time with his slowing heartbeat. None of his limbs feel like they are attached to his core.

 

She returns with a damp rag and bowl of water. Her strong hands press it gently against his back, bit by bit, not rubbing, which would irritate his wounds. Silus hears her wring it out and re-wet it several times, reveling in its cooling magic against his tortured shoulders, back and sides. One lash curled around his body somewhat, leaving its pink, weeping mark along his ribs. Interestingly, the column of his spine is completely untouched, evidenced by her fingers pressing a trail from the very top of his neck on down to his tailbone. Actually, only the upper region of his back is in distress, right along the shoulder blades and over the ribs. The soft tissue over his organs has not a mark on it. Silus wants to consider why this matters, but he feels heavy and tired and thinking is a bother.

 

Her hands take him by the upper arms and guide him down on the couch, back facing up so that it is not touching anything but cool air. She props up his head with a relatively soft pillow and holds out a mason jar of water.

 

“Drink this.” Silus sees with vague disappointment that she has put on a thin white tunic. While not as heart-stopping as suddenly seeing a woman’s naked torso, he can still make out her dark nipples through the worn fabric and the hard buds make noticeable landmarks. He drinks in the water and this pleasant sight both, then heavily gives his weight to the couch and sleeps.

 

xXx

 

“Oh… _Silus_ …” A familiar voice shimmers in Silus’ ear. It is quiet and insistent; carrying through the dark shack, but with no more disturbance than a moth fluttering by a candle. He keeps his eyes closed in disbelief for a moment, then turns his head just enough to spot the source of the lascivious sigh in his periphery.

 

Six lays on the bed, completely unclothed; her skin shines in the low light. She is all long legs and tight muscle. Silus’ eyes take in her open, panting mouth, gently swinging breasts with dark, hard nipples, and a soft triangle of pubic hair. Her hands wander over her body slowly, sensuously, cupping her own breasts and brushing her thumbs over their pointed peaks and dragging her fingernails down her sides and thighs leaving long pink scores. Her knees fall apart to expose the delicate pink flesh hidden there and Silus feels his body respond. He tries not to move and give away his voyeurism, but he absolutely needs to relieve the pressure in his straining cock or he might actually die of it. Even a tiny wiggle is only barely enough to keep him from groaning with need. He curses falling asleep on his arms; now there’s no subtle way to get a hand down where it needs to be.

 

Six has no such restraint, though. She sighs and moans freely, her skin flushing with arousal, wantonly arching her back and rocking her hips as she imagines… well, if her needy whispers are to be believed… Silus himself. What is she imagining him to do? Is he kissing her neck and collarbones while flicking her erect nipples? Is his head buried between her thighs, lapping eagerly at her pearl and dipping his tongue into her heady entrance? Or, perhaps… is he buried deep inside her, stretching her as wide as she can stand, lifting her legs to find greater purchase and bearing down upon her writhing, shivering body.

 

It’s too much. Silus grinds heavily against the rough cushions and feels a prickle begin to build at his core. Gasping with need, he thrusts again and grips the frame of the couch to control himself, but then rockets up in horror when he spies a pair of bare feet next to the place he was about to grab.

 

Suddenly she is upon him, hands splayed wide on his chest, and her mouth unerringly finding his. Silus recoils with shock. She had seen him watching her and trying to contain his desire… but does it really matter? Six is kneeling before him, glittering eyes staring longingly into his, her open mouth seemingly daring him to kiss her… and for a moment, he wildly considers it, but then her hands find his freed cock already slick with arousal and stroke him, expertly rolling the flesh until he has to bite his own lip bloody to keep from shaming himself with the strength of his lust.

 

Her thumb brushes over his swollen head like it had with her own body, smearing trickles of escaped semen all along the length and girth. She repositions herself on his lap, teasing him with not only her beautiful, curving breasts but the heat and slick of her thighs on his. If he rocks his hips up, the head of his cock can just brush her needy vulva. It’s a new kind of torture, being so close to what he’s been thinking of and needing only one good push to be there… except for the will of a 200-something-lb woman mewling in his arms. He grits his teeth and drops his forehead onto her shoulder, willing himself to last… just a few moments longer… don’t thrust if you can help it… keep your hands on her back… dear gods above, he’s never wanted anyone so much in his entire life...

 

“Silus,” she whispers, drawing out his name into a delicious, inviting brush of teeth on his lip. “Please… please…”

 

Hardly daring to speak, Silus takes her hips in hand and pulls her down…

 

...then wakes up with a yelp of pain.

 

Silus promptly scrambles off the duplicitous, uncomfortable couch and heaves a few deep breaths to recenter himself. A quick look up and down himself reveals the whole sordid story. Exhausted and compromised from his punishment, Silus fell asleep on the couch. Having been so crassly titillated by the sight of naked breasts the night before, his brain obviously decided to treat him to the adolescent special: depraved sex dreams and a sticky cleanup. He was only awake now because at some point in the night, he had rolled onto his flayed back and the force of his ejaculation had rubbed the wounds raw. His rapidly softening manhood is all the proof needed to support his theory… the wet spots on his wastelander trousers are just a bonus.

 

Irritably, he strips and throws everything stitch of clothing into the metal basin they use for laundry. A kettle of hot water and a few sprinkles of borax and washing powder will eliminate his indiscretion quickly enough. Now he just has to figure out how to look Courier Six in the face without popping a whole new problem and… wait, where is she?

 

There’s really nowhere to hide in the shack. It’s only one room big. Shelves and lockers on one long wall, the wood-burning stove and various basins and buckets on the other. The reprehensible couch occupies the short wall near the front door and the bed with double-mattresses is set flush with the opposite wall. There’s a little space in the center for a rug, table, and mismatched chairs, but not much else. In fact, the leather briefcase containing god-knows-what from her correspondents is lying open on the bed where she should be, but a quick inspection shows it to be completely empty. So, too, is the trader’s book gone. Silus takes a fresh tunic from a locker, a loose pair of shoes, and a bit of rope to serve as a belt, then quietly goes out the front door.

 

The brahmin and bighorners are all laying down in the gray pre-dawn. Even the vegetables in their tire planters seem to be asleep when their little leaves are all folded up. No birds are awake to chirrup, no lizards to hiss. It is very calm and a little cool.

 

“ _Aaaand we’r ----ck_.” A tinny, crackling voice reaches Silus’ ears. It is coming from behind the shack, so he follows the sound. “ _This is ----r. New Vegas, and I feel something ----- the air tonight, and I'm n----- talking about the ------iation_!”

 

Wolfhorn Ranch is built on the east side of a small ridge that separates Nipton from the great descent to the Colorado River. Until this moment, Silus had thought about the patch of land as beginning at the house and descending to the scrubby little road beyond the vegetables. Now, he sees a little trail leading west, away from the house and up to a pair of hills overlooking the road. This is where the radio noise is coming from. He follows the trail, struggling a little in the loose shoes, and comes upon Courier Six sitting in a chair beside two unmarked graves, listening to a little box radio.

 

Her face is uncovered, though still a little obscure in the low light. She wears her typical blank expression, but Silus thinks her eyes look more distant than normal. In one hand is a half-drunk bottle of whiskey that could drop at any second. He clears his throat and she looks over with one eyebrow raised. Didn’t know she could do _that._ Her head quirks to the side, looking him up and down, and a decision is made; hopefully that she doesn’t mind his presence. She adjusts the little antenna of the radio and returns to looking east, away over the mountains.

 

“Hey,” says Silus, nearly leading with ‘ave.’ He hates how sloppy and casual he sounds.

 

Six tilts her chin. “Hey yourself. Would you like to sit?”

 

That might be the first question she’s ever asked him. Not a demand requiring a response… not a set of instructions he needs to understand… just a plain, old question. It sounds wrong. Rather than answer, he just sits on the ground next to her. The radio blares a retro-Vegas style big band ballad. Under the radio is a stack of opened letters.

 

“So… friends of yours?” he says awkwardly, gesturing to the unmarked graves.

 

“No. Well… no. Former owners, I think.”

 

“Ah.” He is realizing now that she must do this every day. Under her chair are several sets of boot-prints and empty whiskey bottles. It didn’t seem important, but now that it’s brought to his attention, Six has always been awake before him. Why? There seem to be too many questions to ask and yet, not a single one that he can think of at the same time. He is saved the obligation of making a new attempt at conversation by the smooth radio announcer.

 

 _“If you like news, you're gonna love our next segment…”_ Six reaches over quickly and turns up the volume.

 

_“Word out of Camp Golf is that many NCR Rangers can expect redeployment in the near future. One anonymous soldier said it was part of a new strategy. NCR sources say that holding the Dam against Caesar's Legion has become their main strategic priority, and this move would not be unexpected. Also… A source within the Great Khans is saying the gang has reached an accord with the NCR, and will support them in any conflict with Caesar's Legion. You know, they say no news is good news, but I think my program would be awfully dull if that were the case. Gonna play a song for you right now. It's about that special someone you only find once... in a Blue Moon.”_

 

Courier Six turns the volume back down on the brass band intro and sighs deeply. She looks different up here; smaller, more tired. She rubs her face with one hand, pausing to scratch parts of her scar, and mutters, “Fools…”

 

A few things click into place in Silus’ brain. “You’re managing Vegas from here, aren’t you? You really did kill Mr. House and take his place.”

 

“More or less,” she says in a flippant tone. “I’ve got a team living in the city. They oversee the day-to-day… I come in occasionally and do big-picture things. I’m not… People don’t see me as…” She stops herself and rephrases. “The citizens of New Vegas aren’t interested in dealing with their problems openly. They’re happy to accept money and aid, but then sweep any mention of it under the table, leaving people like us high and dry. I still want what’s best for the city, but I’m not willing to become a piece of wallpaper to avoid challenging their consciences.”

 

He stares. That was a… brutally honest answer. He can’t believe that she would just… tell him right out. “Why?” he asks, certain there’s more to it. “Why do you care what happens to them if they can’t even properly acknowledge your leadership?”

 

“It’s my home,” she said simply, the faraway look in her eyes becoming more poignant. “I’m… different since my death. The bullets that put me in the ground tore up my brain until it was holier than bighorner cheese. I can remember everything that happened to me before... but I don’t really connect with the memories. I know my birthday, I remember the house where I grew up… I know where my parents are buried and still... it feels like it all happened to someone else and I’m just hearing about it secondhand. I also like different things… different food, different times of day. I have different habits now… even my sense of smell is sharper and more sensitive. The truth is… caring about New Vegas is something to do to keep me going until I die permanently. I owe that Goodsprings doctor my life but… Sometimes I wish he’d left me well enough alone.”

 

Dawn is beginning to break. A sneaking tendril of sunlight peeks through the distant, distant pass to the New California Republic. Silus is unused to hearing someone so typically in control express these kinds of doubts. He almost wants to slap her and make her see sense. He also suspects that this would not have a desirable outcome, so he chooses another important question to ask. “Why me? Why would you buy me if you don’t want to even be here?”

 

This time she actually looked at him, her plain, round eyes searching his face. “Boyd didn’t tell you?”

 

Silus shrugged and brushed his hair out of his eyes. She drew another deep breath and spoke slowly, weighing her words.

 

“Of all the Legionaries I’ve ever met, only you have criticized Caesar’s leadership. At the end of every battle, all Caesar’s soldiers lie dead on the field, often by their own hand, but you let yourself be taken alive. Nevermind all that ‘nothing to fear, nothing to prove’ bullshit you fed the Lieutenant; you’re just not content to toe the party line. Now, that’s useful to the NCR thugs, who want to crack you open like a walnut and see what secrets fall out… but it also means that you’re able to think for yourself and you don’t like what’s happening in the Legion. You were miserable and lashed out however you could to make sense of your misery.”

 

“So you pitied me?” snaps Silus, his anger boiling quickly to the surface.

 

“No,” she says firmly in a tone that he recognizes as her ‘don’t argue’ voice. “I _empathize_ with you. I know what it’s like not to know what to do with yourself. I _get_ doing irrational and stupid things just to feel something different for a while. I _understand_ what it feels like when the whole damn world is against you and _you just don’t want to play the game_. I’ve been there. I thought I could help you get out of that place.”

 

“You made me trade prisons. Give up one misery for another,” he says, peevishly.

 

“Is that true, though? Are you really miserable here?”

 

Silus almost cries ‘Yes!’ just to make a point, but then he sees her stare and actually thinks about it despite his irritation. True, she made him work long hours doing demanding physical labor, but wasn’t she working right alongside him? It was tedious and often quiet, a vast contrast to the noisome, stinking Legion camps, but he couldn’t say that at the end of the day he felt that his time was wasted. He wasn’t constantly dropping his work to snap to attention, he wasn’t holding back scathing commentary every time a new order was given, and when he _was_ disciplined, Courier Six always informed him as per the reason whether he agreed with it or not. Additionally, she never prevented him from eating a full meal or drinking as much water as he needed; a common tactic to ensure compliance from the lowly foot soldiers.

 

Six has been watching this internal drama play out on his face, it seems. When he resentfully doesn't respond, she smiles and Silus sees for the first time exactly why she doesn’t make many facial expressions. Half of her face is dead. Everywhere the scar touches, her right eye, ear, nose, brow, and the corner of her mouth, looks paralyzed, but worse, actively pulls away from the other parts of her face. It looks painful. Her left eye is squeezed almost shut to pull up the side of her mouth, which unintentionally hangs open. The overall effect is that of a perfectly acceptable human face which has been left on one side of the stove for too long.

 

She stops almost as soon as she began.

 

Another slug of whiskey later, she stands and turns off the radio. “Come,” she says, returning to her usual manner. “There is much to do.”

 

“Wait...” says Silus, standing quickly. His hand extends of its own accord to catch her elbow, but he manages to turn it into some other kind of gesture, lamely pointing at a rock. “Was it worth it?”

 

“Was what?”

 

“Were... the caps you paid... worth it?”

 

Six looks sideways at the broad centurion. Her eyes sparkled with that secret meaning. It’s like she knows something he hasn’t thought to imagine yet.  “Yes. All 10,000 of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the overwhelming support! Your attention and comments have sustained me through so much material, I'm going to need more than 3 chapters to fit it all in!


	4. Breaking Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courier Six and Silus discover that there is a limit to what influence she can exert over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll no doubt notice that the chapter count keeps rising every time a new chapter appears... I keep finding more plot to angst to death. I promised myself this would be a short break from my main story but, damnit... I just love torturing these two SO MUCH.

Winter in Vegas was milder than Flagstaff’s. Silus hadn’t attended Flagstaff’s turn of the season in quite some time, but he remembered it well enough. A quick snap of cold followed by a gradual lightening of drizzle into wispy, disappearing flakes of snow. In the following days, the white, fluffy snow piles itself, layer upon layer, forming treacherous ice traps and long, painted hills, studded with bare trees and rocky shadows. As a young legionary, he would be permitted to play in it at short intervals, making war upon the other boys and terrorizing slaves bundled up against the freeze.

Vegas succumbed to winter more gradually. Silus noticed at first that he didn’t feel compelled to remove his leg wrappings and shirt while working anymore. The sun set earlier and earlier, bringing the nipping desert night sooner and saving the harsh glare of daybreak until later. Six would kindle the fire before finishing the day’s work, then, instead of waiting until mealtime. Eventually, his thin, worn tunic was traded away for a new, sturdier one and Six would wear a knit hat and scarf instead of her trademark gas mask.

The house was full to bursting with the fruits of their labors. Overflowing baskets of raw wool, horn, teeth, bone, and beaten plant fiber stood ready to be fashioned into housewares and clothing. The metal shelves on the long wall of the shack bore row upon row of canned corn, mashed yucca, jerked mole-rat, jarred ant nectar, dried mutfruit, and every other kind of hardy, preserved foodstuffs one could imagine. Furthermore, the shack had been triple checked and insulated for the colder weather, the shed was full of wood and brahmin chips for the fire, and seeds had been laid away for the next year’s planting. Silus could look around the ranch and see the proof of his hand’s work in every corner.

Six was tilling the soil of the empty planters to thoroughly churn together the latest batch of bighorner fertilizer and compost. Her hoe flashed in the setting sun, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Silus could stand and watch for hours, mesmerized by the steady swing of her shoulders, but he was tasked with shredding the stalks of dead yucca plants to dry for the animals’ feed. Six thought that they would be able to secure some grain for the livestock up from the south, but it was always best to have a strategic backup besides wholesale slaughtering them. He thinks she is planning to stud out the male calf next spring and it would be a shame to lose the income.

He pauses to stretch his fingers and spies another cloud of traveler dust coming down the long 15. Many caravans have passed by, seeking passage through the NCR pass to warmer climates, and sometimes Six will trade with them or send packages and messages along for a modest purse of caps.

“Incoming, from the north,” he says, still proudly hearing the efficient clip in his words. He watches Six swing the hoe once more and stand, hand on her back to relieve some growing pains there. She peers out the way he indicates, squinting one eye at the distant plume of dust, then freezes. It’s a small thing, but Silus attunes to it immediately.

“Boy,” she hisses, urgently. “Get inside. Now.”

Silus’ hands drop the plants and take his mason jar of water from the edge of the cistern. He walks close to her on the way to the front door. “What is it?” he dares to ask, knowing that she most likely won’t give up any information. She is still guarded after all this time.

“Could be trouble, could be nothing. Do as I say.”

Grumpily, he does. The ranch door swings shut behind him. He takes a significant drink of water, then sets about moving a board on the wall behind the couch to expose a hole in the corrugated steel big enough to peer through. He can kneel on the couch, brush his unkempt, shoulder-length black hair out of the way, then lean against the wall to see everything that passes in the garden.

Six has returned to swinging her hoe, still tilling the earth, but this is a much better angle for Silus to observe. Her breasts swing freely, framed prettily by the open lapels of her leather duster. Not for the first or last time, Silus imagines taking them in his mouth and suckling until she moans, opening her arms to draw him closer. Maybe she could do what some of the Vegas whores will and press her breasts together for him to fuck, enveloped in their softness. His cock stirs, aroused by the thought of her face sticky with his cum… No, focus.

She continues her work even as three men in desert uniform approach from the road. Silus sees their weapons slung arrogantly over one shoulder, not even pointed the correct way to access quickly. NCR dogs. Worthless. They swagger up to Six, who, Silus is pleased to note, doesn’t alter her rhythmic strokes at all. One, finally, salutes and presumably speaks, though their words are hidden by a high protective collar. Courier Six finishes the last corner of the planter, sets aside her tool, and turns to them.

They speak for several minutes, gesturing abstractly in vague directions. Six stands with her hands loosely held at her sides, very close to where Silus knows she has a pistol and a combat knife hidden, though she makes no move toward them. One trooper reaches into a bag, causing one of her fingers to twitch in their leather gauntlets, but turns out to only be retrieving a heavy envelope to give to her. Six takes it, removes her gauntlets and slits it open. They all stand together while she reads, slowly at first, then faster and faster through successive pages. She nearly drops the entire thing at the end, staring up at them and shaking the paper into their faces. Her scarf has fallen off, revealing the intensity of her speech.

All three soldiers nod.

Courier Six sits heavily on the edge of the planter, staring off into space and holding the letter tightly in one white-knuckled hand. The troopers are clearly elaborating, but she gives no sign of hearing them. At length, she reads the last page of the long letter again, mouthing minutely. Silus was never an apt lip-reader and is frustrated by his cluelessness when something obviously monumental is at stake.

She sighs deeply. It makes her look small. 

‘Yes,’ he can see. Then a few more words, and clearly ending with ‘promise.’

At once, the three soldiers salute and stride away. Silus is annoyed by how they bounce on the balls of their feet. It feels mocking.

Six sits several minutes longer. Her blank face betrays nothing about the agreement she has just made, much less how she feels about it. She cradles the sheets of paper like a precious thing, like something so fragile a thought will break it. They tremble in her hands. 

Suddenly, she tears them apart, mutilating the words and meanings until they might have never existed at all. The dumb fragments float to the earth where she stands on them and crushes the last drops of life from them. All save the last page. This, she folds and tucks away in her breast pocket. As a final afterthought, she overturns a mason jar of water, desecrating even the earth where the letter is buried, never to be read again.

At last, she turns toward the house and Silus must work quickly to secret his spying.

He doesn’t learn the contents of the letter for a handful more days.

After a meal of refried silt beans and fire ant meat, she places the tin dishes in the wash basin and jerks her head toward the couch. 

“Kneel.”

Even after all these months, Silus waits until she gives him the order rather than take any initiative himself; he forces her to reestablish the roles each evening. Once she does, he takes his position facing the worn cushions and with some measure of patience, places his hands spread widely upon his hard thighs. They can both sense that this evening is different. The air is tight with anticipation, opening his eyes and ears. He is aware of every step she takes, every breath out of sync, every strain of his muscles. 

“There is information I require of you,” she says with a nearly imperceptible waver in her voice. How uncharacteristic. If Silus hadn’t been living with her 24/7 for the last handful of months, he wouldn’t be able to detect it. “Know that I will not stop until you give me what I require.”

He kneels silently, staring at the frayed edge of the couch. She is standing right behind him. If she shifts one foot, it will kick his toes. Silus waits, listening to her deep, steady breaths. Her gloved hand comes to rest heavily on his upper back, directly between his shoulder blades, above his heart. Her fingertips press distinctly and when she inhales, he finds himself inhaling also, matching her.

“Stand and undress,” she whispers. “Every stitch.”

Now this is highly unusual. No matter where she planned on working on him, at least some part of his body had been covered. It’s probable that by this point, Six has seen all his body has to offer… but never all at once. He hesitates, but, spurred on by a clawing, grasping need for resolution, does as he is bid, throwing the garments carelessly over the arm of the couch. He kneels once more, naked and vulnerable as the day he was born, through crisscrossed with significantly more scars. 

She must have picked out a tool earlier. He hears the falls whistle through the air behind him, calibrating. The flogger. He closes his eyes and braces himself, relaxing his back muscles and making an open shape of his fingers.

SLAP! SLAP!

Silus nearly jumps out of his skin. Instead of striking his back like usual, her flogger fell directly upon his flexed feet, deeply scoring the sensitive arches. Eyebrows disappearing into his shaggy black mane, he looks over his shoulder at her. She doesn’t wear her leather coat, only a thin white shirt. Her mouth is set in a hard line. It’s going to be like this, tonight.

SLAP! SLAP!

The first strike lands on the inside of his left foot, while the second crosses to his right. He can see in his mind the turn of her wrist that causes the falls to make a figure eight in the air. He can see it, but it doesn’t help him weather the pain.

SLAP! SLAP!

Courier Six has this uncanny ability to strike exactly the same place, no matter how many times she has pulled the shot or how much Silus moves. Silus’ feet cringe away when her shoulder creaks before the strikes. Her strokes fall upon his vulnerable arches, regardless. He has bitten his cheek so hard not to scream, he tastes blood.

SLAP! SLAP!

Somewhere in his pain-dulled brain, he realizes that while she has told him that she wants answers from him, she has not asked a question.

SLAP! SLAP!

A groan, unbidden, spills from his chest. It is strained, choked.

SLAP! SLAP!

He barks with pain, a shout that rattles the windows.

SLAP! SLAP!

The agony is overwhelming like it’s too electric for his body to contain. He kicks out, one leg striking ineffectively backward, the other attempting to stand and instead, dumping him sideways onto the floor. His toes can’t decide whether being flexed or pointing is more torturous. 

“Be goddamned, woman! Enough with this insanity and be out with it! What do you want!?”

Her face is pale. The scar stands out garishly, cutting through her wide eye. She breathes slowly through her nose, then speaks, crisply, “What ails Caesar?”

Silus shakes the hair from his face, sure he misheard and yet, consumed with dread that he didn’t. It’s the last great secret he has, the last piece of honor a centurion could hold: protecting the August Caesar, but as they gaze at one another, he is absolutely certain that this is the exact reason why the NCR was willing to let her walk away with him. This is why it was important enough to send three soldiers to deliver a letter. This is why she had been earning his trust in a lonely shack on the border of the radioactive lands for months. This answer. 

“This?” he sneers, “For this, you buy and sell me? For this, you make yourself the lapdog of the bear? What do they hold over you, miserable degenerate?

“What ails Caesar?” she repeats, only a shade louder than before. “You know.”

Silus rolls onto his ass, propped up on his elbows and feet resting delicately on the heels. “Let's see. I know that you're a brainless cretin. I know that you're wasting your time. I know the lieutenant is going to be disappointed in you. And I know that by this time next month the streets of New Vegas will be decorated with the decaying heads of NCR soldiers. Is there anything else you wanted to know?" It’s a loud, squawking rebellion, more teeth than tear, but when he’s panting from exertion, it’s the most he can hurl at her.

She blinks, her dispassionate face so unflinching, she might not even have heard him. Her boots are heavy on the hollow floorboards. She comes to stand directly over him, her feet on either side of his hips. One gloved hand reaches down and grips him by the throat, dragging him up and back, so his body is sprawled uncomfortably across the edge of the faded couch, knees almost touching the floor. Her mouth is suddenly close, pursed lips right at eye level.

“Tell me. Why does Caesar retreat into his tent? Why does he complain of pain only to be whisked away by his Frumentarii? There are rumblings among the Legion. What. Ails. Caesar?”

Despite his rage, he trembles in her grasp. He wishes that he were a speck of dust, floating by her lips so that he might brush his entire body against them. He longs for her other hand to grasp his manhood, already standing tall, and complete his subjugation. It fills him with nausea to debase himself in his own mind thusly, but the effect of her aggression simply can’t be hidden when he has bared himself to receive her lash. Silus almost spills himself and his secret right there, sold on the promise of her kiss, but manages to bite his cheek once again and regain control of himself.

“Take you to hell, bitch,” he grinds out, spitting blood.

“So be it.”

From her pocket, she draws her shining combat knife. Still gripping him firmly by the throat, she crosses to the blazing fire of the oven, forcing Silus to fall to his knees and crawl after her. The door of the stove swings open with a metallic groan, pouring out its heat. Silus can see from the corner of his eye, Six holds out her knife, dousing the tip in flame and watches as it grows red, yellow, then white with heat. It steams faintly when she eventually takes it out to show him.

“Tell me.”

Cedo nulli, he thinks, feeling his stomach drop out from under him. “Do your worst.”

Quick as a flash, she plunges the tip of the searing hot knife into his chest. He roars and kicks, knocking her away, but not quickly enough to stop her. His chest is on fire, the stink of burned flesh filling his nostrils, and his hands are fists, crashing into everything in his wake. He flips the table so hard one leg severs and flies to the other side of the shack. He punches a chair and watches it splinter. He only has the presence of mind to seize his dirty, worn clothes from the arm of the hateful couch before he kicks the front door clean off his hinges and charges out into the silent night.

On his chest, he carries the number 6.

xXx

When he finally stops, his feet are raw and bloody. Any idiot could track him. At some point, he must have put on the pants and shirt, so he is only carrying the long leg wrappings. He sits on a rock to tie them around his feet, having not brought shoes, and looks around. Over that hill, there, is Searchlight. The green glow is especially luminescent at this time of night. Silus sniffs the air and squints east, then judges it to be about 2 in the morning. It’s cold in the desert at night and now that he’s no longer moving, driven by insensible furor, it’s obvious how thin and insufficient his clothes are. He shivers and looks to the west.

Beyond Searchlight and down the road lies Cottonwood Cove. From there, one can take a barge north to Fortification Hill where Caesar waits, plotting. Silus’ feet ran this way only to put as much distance between him and the NCR border as possible. Now… He sighs hoarsely. He can’t go there.

Most likely, the legionary guarding the boats would javelin him before he came close enough to hail him and make his case. Such was the justice of Caesar. That wretched woman was right… by this point, his comrades would think him traitor. Assuming he could talk his way into the camp, he harbored little doubt that he would be immediately thrown into the fighting ring to die for Caesar’s entertainment… or fitted for a collar. He touches his throat lightly where her iron fingers gripped his neck. It must be bruised there, for it aches to even swallow.

Enough feeling sorry. If he doesn’t get out of this cold, he’ll die and the problem will solve itself.

At the bottom of the valley opposite Searchlight, is an overturned semi-truck. Seeing no better option besides radiation, he clambers down and crawls into the partially buried vehicle. Right at the front of the trailer, nearest the unusable cab, there is an overhang that he can just wedge himself into. Curled up tightly like this, he can retain more body heat and avoid being seen. Eventually, he fitfully falls asleep and has upset dreams.

In the pre-dawn hour, Silus is awoken by the stiffness of his body, which is just as well because he is hungry and thirsty also. He unfolds from the attic and crawls out to a greying sky. He has seen many like it but never has it made him feel so empty. He only has the clothes on his back… no shoes, no weapon, no tools… Today, he will be a scavenger. He looks to the east once, then checks himself and prepares to walk around Searchlight to the south where he remembers an airport.

It is a long, tedious journey. There is no way that he hasn’t soaked up some rads from Searchlight’s glorious massacre, though he tries to skirt around far enough to avoid the worst. He stumbles on many pointed rocks that reopen the wounds on his feet, forcing him to work slower and slower to make any progress. When he at long last makes it, he sees the typical entrance is collapsed and he must walk further to find a gap in the chain-link fence. By this time, the sun is glaring over the mountains, shining angrily into his eyes every time he looks to the east, which is often.

With some determined “lockpicking” of left behind, forgotten luggage (Silus smashes the little locks with a heavy rock), he obtains a hat and a pair of sandals. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. From a nearby gecko-nibbled corpse, he snags a leather Boomer jacket; those crazy, paranoid profligates might be trigger happy and sitting on more C4 than the former United States needed to obliterate itself, but their uniforms were well suited to the climate and protective as well.

Searchlight’s airport was old, dismal, and every surface was cracked in some way. Silus struggled for several minutes to raise a sliding door enough to wriggle under without being halved, then it squealed and didn’t close properly anyway. A long beam of light from the ill-fitting corner illuminates the inside. It’s mostly trash, destroyed seats, old luggage, etc. but as he ventures further into the tiny terminal, he starts to see stacks of crates. He wanders around the corner and sees three stacks of varying sizes clogging up the walkway. Silus feels the hairs at the nape of his neck prickle. Something he should remember… something familiar…

It doesn’t come to him in this room or the next, still decorated with decaying baggage claim sheet metal, scattered like so many caravan cards. It is actually in the next that his suspicions are revealed. A minuscule room that looks like a staff break room is piled from floor to ceiling with wooden crates and when he sees that one is sitting by itself with the lid cracked, he doesn’t hesitate. He throws it open and gazes inside with dread growling in the pit of his stomach. 

Guns. A dozen rifles with glittering, untouched triggers packed into dry straw. Magazines bulging with ammunition. Bandoliers and carrying cases, scopes, everything… Silus mentally tallies all the crates he has seen… enough to wipe out most of Nevada. Under the guns is a layer of knives and machetes. He draws one out and sees no mark of battle upon it. He stares in amazement… until his attention is seized by the corner of a red handkerchief. His trembling hand grasps it and draws it out, already knowing what he will see… the golden bull. 

Caesar’s army; this is their storage place.

He throws the lid haphazardly at the crate, then dashes back down the hallway, sliding in the sandals with the pristine machete in hand. The beam of light from the bent door called to him but was then interrupted by a flashing pair of hobnailed boots and greaves. Several pairs, actually. He stumbles back, but not quickly enough to escape the soldiers’ notice.

“You there! Profligate! Stop!”

Silus’s blood freezes. Of all the people to run into… He’d already been to the back-most room. Past these men was the only way out of the entire tiny hanger. One choice... He turns around and squares his shoulders, almost summoning the same indomitable will he had when his shoulders were encased in victorious armor.

“Dead Sea,” says Silus with a sneer.

“By the will of Caesar…” says the decanus, his voice falling into a self-satisfied strut. “Look at what we have found, men: the most wretched traitor this side of the Colorado. Been enjoying your vacation, Centurion?”

Silus feels the ground with his toes, the solid, gritty surface. It is settling. He shifts the handle of the machete in his grip, finding its balance for the perfect swing. “More than you’ve been enjoying your war. Still trying on recruits when the slaves turn you away, brother? Or are they easier to order onto their knees…”

“Silence your tongue!” he spits, striding forward several steps, his eight men close at hand. “You speak blasphemies.”

“No more blasphemous than your complete failure to crush Camp Forlorn Hope. Weren’t there a mere handful of demoralized soldiers when you first took command at Nelson? Decided to rest on our laurels a moment too long, didn’t we?”

Snarling with fury, Dead Sea slings the trail rifle efficiently from his shoulder and points it at Silus’s center mass. “I'll execute Caesar's will by hurling your corpse into the Colorado - like the other Profligates before you!” 

Silus pitches himself sideways behind another leaning stack of crates and the first few bullets bury themselves in the wood. He grips his machete stronger and listens to the click of their boots coming closer. After a moment’s intense firing, a brief lull in the ear-shattering din signals a reload and Silus makes his move. With a quick snap of strength, he pushes the heavy crates towards his enemies. The crash to the floor, spill their contents and packed straw, then shatter into a thousand splinters. Then, his machete leading the way, he charges over the debris and catches the first recruit in the neck. His shout alerts the one beside him, fumbling with the release on his rifle, but not soon enough to stop Silus’s second swing through his stomach.

It turns out bullets rebound somewhat in a metal enclosure, even if the concrete floor and pillars stop most. Silus keeps moving, hoping that by doing so he is making himself an erratic enough target to dodge the new wave of shooting and the slower, deadlier ones bouncing back. It has the added effect of kicking up splintered wood, at least some of which finds its way into the eyes of the one soldier not wearing goggles. He receives a blade to the hamstrings for his trouble.

Five more men, all save Dead Sea are stumbling back now. Silus grabs the rifle of the man he just handicapped and flings it at two more against the wall, where it discharges. It might have shot the men, it might not… Silus is staring at the triangle of light emanating from the improperly closed door. He ducks under Dead Sea’s arm, thrown out to catch him, and slides under, army crawling the rest of the way out. Not wearing armor has some advantages. Then, instead of taking off at a dead run in a straight line away from the airport like an idiot, he turns quickly and runs for the back of the hangar. 

The fastest recruit to follow is also the unluckiest. His football helmet is no contest for a two-handed overhead strike. The next one actually put up a fight. His wiry arms whip his knife in elaborate circles, forcing Silus to step back and reevaluate more than once. Eventually, he tires himself with all the combat acrobatics and is dispatched easily enough with a chop to the arm and a second to make sure he stays down. No one comes around the corner for a moment. Silus forces air in and out of his nose and takes this brief moment to smooth his long hair back out of his face… probably with legionary blood. He chooses not to think about that too closely and instead count how many men he has left to kill.

Two, three… maybe five inside… two outside… that leaves… two more.

A crunch of gravel behind him tells him he didn’t fool everyone with his chase around the airport. A bullet catches him in the thigh before he can turn and he kneels, hard. A veteran, covered in pillaged armor, trains his rifle on Silus’s face. His hands are remarkably steady. 

“Not bad, profligate.” Dead Sea strolls casually around the corner. “Your fighting skills are obviously undiminished by your sabbatical in the desert. It must be, or our patrols would have executed you long before now. Is it true? Did you debase yourself before the NCR dogs in their kennel? Did you whisper our secrets to them for your pillow talk, use your strong, Roman arm to clear away their vermin? Or did you sit and say not a word for yourself as they used you…”

Silus is in no position to argue. With a wounded leg, now bleeding freely onto the sand, one short weapon and two men to fight, both well armored… he thinks his road has run out. He finds it ironic that he is now kneeling to a man beneath station and yet feels less humiliated and more defiant than he did kneeling to Courier Six. He blinks slowly and feels her heat at his back, her heavy gauntleted hand resting over his heart. He can almost imagine the bite of her cane, or the slap of her swatter if he tries.

“No reply? By his will, then.” Dead Sea raises his personal weapon, the long-handled Liberator, and centers it over Silus’s head.

POW

Dead Sea’s helmet quivers, then drops to the ground revealing his short, sandy hair. Bright red blood oozes down his forehead and, almost as though in slow motion, he swings in a simple arc to collapse in a heap beside his feathered headgear.

Silus breathes, then breathes again; still alive.

POW

Another shot takes out the veteran still standing, who hadn’t yet registered what happened.

Silus shakes his hair from his face, now matted and sprayed with decanus blood. He already knows what he will see when he turns around, so he delays, savoring the moment of peace. His heart still beats, counting out the moments of his life, moreso than he had only seconds before. He supposes he owes it to her, and turns, dragging his injured leg behind.

It is Courier Six. She is dressed as a ranger again, with long brown trenchcoat, smooth helmet and gas mask. Her rifle is replaced on her shoulder, point up beside her ear. He can picture her stern expression behind the mask. Her steps are even, measured. She could be out for a walk or on her way to put a knife in Caesar’s heart, it’d be the same. It makes Silus’s heart squeeze.

“You’re here,” he says unnecessarily by way of greeting. 

“I thought you would go this way,” she answers, understanding the question he meant. “The NCR has been monitoring the occupation at Nelson for some time. It was only a question of how long it would take you to find them after you left.” She pauses and some warmth comes into her voice. “It was sooner than I expected.”

“Are you here to drag me back? Punish me for my insolence?” His voice is bitter to his own ears.

Six tilts her head at him. “...No.”

He feels both vindicated in her defeat and disappointed that she isn’t feeling combative. It’s a waste of good adrenaline not to pick a fight over his ownership. “Well, good, because I…”

“I have come to ask you to come home.”

Silus has no answer for that. “...what?”

“This… isn’t the best of places to talk… I don’t know how well this hanger is monitored, but… I was wrong to trade your trust for information. I should have known that asking you to betray your comrades… your faith… your absolute leader… even if you had defected was a betrayal of your nature. The NCR called in a favor from me and offered a price so high… I felt that I had to try. I’m sorry… I put the needs of others before yours… and it is only to you that I have an... obligation.” To emphasize her point, she slides up her mask. Underneath, her eyes are sorrowful, made more tragic by the spiderweb scar across her face.

“Home?” he whispers, tasting the word. “My home is in Flagstaff…” but it wasn’t. Not anymore.

“It… it has to be your choice. You know what I am offering.” 

Silus the subsistence farmer makes a reappearance in his mind. Independent… free to sleep and wake, eat and... well… in a place of his own… with her. Or… he could take his chances in the desert and hope no more Legionaries stumble across him. It feels anathema to him… this quiet acceptance of a quiet life, but the longer he thinks about it, the more he wants to sink down into the mattress at the end of a day’s manual labor, after eating a bowl of food he picked outside half an hour ago, and press his mouth to hers, feel her skin sliding across his, and open her up to his embrace.

“I can’t stand,” he says at length.

“I can help you.”

“There’s a bullet in my leg.”

“I can remove it.”

“...I’ve never lived like this.”

“I can show you.”

“Then… do.”

She kneels swiftly and pulls a long pair of tweezers and a canteen of water from one of her many pockets. With grim efficiency, she pours water over his thigh to clear the wound and squints into it. Silus feels exposed. She is leaning closely over him, staring into his very meat. No doubt she can smell the fear in his sweat, the blood of his feet, the hot musk of arousal at her closeness… He’s trying to think about a brisk, 10 mile march to get his cock to go the fuck back to sleep when her tweezers painfully plunge into his thigh and the problem solves itself.

“Got it.” She holds out the tiny metal ball to him, dropping it into his palm. He sneers at it, then lets it tip onto the ground and the sand covers it. Then he looks back at her face. He can’t imagine what he looks like, but she looks fresh and strong. Calm, steady face; round eyes watching him; long, talented fingers barely flecked with his blood… Silus thinks he knows what his decision is… and he always did.

“Let’s go,” he says, starting to stand.

Her hand on his chest gives him pause. “Let me bind the wound first.” And so she does with a strip of cloth from a pouch on her hip. It’s tight and precise, like everything she does. When he does stand his leg aches, but it will bear his weight. Even then, Six stands beside him and puts his arm over her shoulders, clamping down when he begins to protest. His words die in his mouth when he sees her good eye crinkled in that little, secret smile. Together, they begin the long walk back to Wolfhorn Ranch.


	5. All Downhill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can Silus expect when he returns to Wolfhorn Ranch in the arms of the Courier?

Chapter 5: All Downhill

 

They needed to take several breaks on the way home. It was uphill, which was already difficult after their exertion, but then Silus’s wrappings also needed frequent adjustment because his feet were still bloody and cut up from not having shoes the day before. Courier Six took this in stride, so to speak, but Silus grew more irritated with every stop, feeling more and more pathetic as the day wore on. He would wave her off and set off again, unaided, but inevitably only managed a few agonizing steps before he was leaning on her again, harder and surlier than ever. They didn’t speak much during this time, needing to save their air for travel.

 

The sun was far past its zenith by the time they reached the turnoff before Wolfhorn Ranch. Those last few yards through the gate were almost harder than all the rest put together. Six put him on a stump next to the cistern and drew a fresh, clear jar of water for him to drink.

 

“Wait here,” she said, barely out of breath. Then she left him and went inside. A few moments later, a curl of smoke drifted lazily out of the stovepipe. Warmth and comfort sounded like heaven, if he weren’t crusted in sweat and grime. His hand scratched his neck and shoulders, trying to loosen even a little crusty, itching dirt. He would have been more thorough, but a spark of pain on his chest made him look down. The number 6; her mark. In his short time away, it clotted, but badly. The scab is black and jagged, probably close to festering. Silus’s mouth twists bitterly. This will scar if it isn’t sorted.

 

He didn’t have time to sort out his feelings about it because she returned then with arms full of terrycloth. Carefully, she peeled off his ruined tunic to throw in a metal bucket with cold, salty water then dipped a hand towel into the cistern to begin washing him. Her touch was precise and firm. She left no square inch untouched; around his neck, all over his face, shoulders, biceps, and chest. 

 

He is just beginning to relax when she clears her throat to get his attention. “This will sting,” she says, indicating the scab. “But it needs to bleed cleanly or it will infect.” 

 

Silus grunts. It’s the most ‘yes’ she’ll get, he thinks.

 

It does, indeed, sting. She scrubs once,  _ hard _ , and the whole black, crusty business sloughs off, trailing behind it a yellow-red trail. A waterfall of clean water wrung from a cloth rinses away the last clinging flecks of black and encourage the blood to flow. “If I put some salve on this, it might fade away altogether.” Her fingertips inspect it lightly, gently prodding the edges of the wound. “If you want, that is.”

 

He shakes his bloody, matted hair out of his face and grunts a second time, just as noncommittal. She smiles with a crinkle of one eye, shrugs and unwraps his feet. They are sore, bruised, bleeding and chapped. A twenty mile forced march in hobnail boots hasn’t done as much damage to these feet as one night on the Mojave. She dunks his feet in a bucket of freezing cold water, which stops their throbbing at once, but also makes his brain swim. She takes his moment of shock as an opportunity to scrub them well and pulls out each one, scratched and scuffed, but ultimately none the worse for wear. At last, she takes the bucket of water and bids him to tip back his head so she can pour it out over his hair, taking most of the sludge with it. It’s the cleanest he has felt in months.

 

She takes him by the hands and helps him to stand and shuffle slowly into the shack, bare feet tingling and scraping on rocks the whole way. Mostly, he wants to sink into bed and let the night have its senseless way with him, but the sight that greets him inside perks his curiosity instead. 

 

The old iron stove is roaring merrily and a kettle has been set delicately over a bright orange flame. Several damp articles of clothing hang from a line overhead close enough to the stove to give off steam, but not enough to incinerate them. Meanwhile the kitchen table and chairs have been pushed into the extreme corner of the house to make room for the most impressive sight of all: an enormous, curving wooden basin large enough for a man to fully sit in. One side is high, reaching up to his waist, while the other curves down and becomes level with his knees, forming a smooth oval shape. The wood is polished and sealed with something clear and solid, burnished until it reflects the firelight. A shining green garden hose edges the rim, sewn down in a curving spiral with tough sinew. Best of all, the entire basin is full of steaming, swirling water and the surface has been sprinkled with dried lavender buds. Silus stares, sure he is mistaken. Is this… a bathtub?

 

“Get in,” says Courier Six, then pauses and amends, “when you’re ready.” It’s obvious that the courtesy does not sit easily in her mouth. While he sits on the couch to recollect himself, she makes herself go to the stove to be patient, though she is still having difficulty once there. Having watched her cook before, Silus knows that she is being too fussy with the kettle, too noisy with the knife to really hide her impatience. She’s typically much too efficient for that kind of nonsense.

 

Silus enjoys her discomfort and plans his next move. Nudity was not uncommon in Legion camps. When a squad of men has been together long enough, one just assumes a certain relaxation of boundaries. After a while, even the cock-and-ball jokes lose their humor and become part of the same dry routine. A newcomer or a woman, though? That was cause for a little showmanship. Watching a new recruit’s face turn red... one of life’s little pleasures. Silus is already divested of tunic and shoes, so he sits on the very edge of the couch and lets his trousers slowly succumb to gravity, revealing a total lack of undergarments. Six isn’t looking right at him, but she shakes a canister harder than necessary all the same. He steps out of them and stands once more, stretching and flexing his shoulders with extreme nonchalance. The soreness permeates his bones, but he can still get a good ripple of muscle going, which is satisfying.

 

He takes his time stepping into the tub, eyeing the thick cloud of pale steam rolling from it. It is almost scalding, but he grits his teeth and enters anyway, sitting and stretching out his legs. Where did she find this prize and where has it been hiding? He leans back and finds that the high side is angled just enough to feel like a reclining chair, but not so much as to encourage sleep. At the same time, his legs can almost fully extend to the other side so he doesn’t have to crouch like bathing in a stream. He adopts a lazy sprawl with one knee casually bent and both arms thrown heavily over the sides, protected from sharp edges by the green hose. The heat soaks into him thoroughly in only a few moments, relaxing away his aches and pains. He is just beginning to drowse when a touch at his shoulder and a mild cough stirs him awake.

 

Six has shrugged out of her leather coat and gauntlets. A quick look over the edge of the tub reveals that she has also abandoned her boots and trousers, leaving her in nothing but a long white shirt to preserve her modesty. With her face similarly uncovered, he can’t recall ever seeing her this exposed, including her typical toplessness while beating him, and he stares shamelessly at her curvy, muscled body. She coughs into her fist one more time, then kneels by the side of the tub. She does it  _ beautifully _ . Her legs fold effortlessly, carrying her to the ground, where her landing so smooth as to prevent any ruffle of her loose, disheveled hair. On her knees she is fluid and graceful, dipping a rough piece of cotton into the blistering water and wringing it in one, skillful motion. She takes his hand and dips it in the water also, letting several of the lavender blossoms swirl around it. She then brings it out and meticulously scrubs each crevasse of his cragged, broken, callused fingers, holding it so closely his pinky could brush against her nipple with only a thought. It’s the kind of attention to detail that Silus isn’t used to taking in his daily hygiene rituals. Frankly, a dip from a bucket of cold water and a chewed mint leaf is considered formal attire on the campaign trail.

 

Once she has fastidiously washed up to his shoulder, she drops the cloth and produces a pocketknife to dig out the dirt from under his fingernails. A rough scrap of sandpaper smooths the hangnails and her quick, sharp blade moves to cut away several layers of dead skin from his hands in only a moment. She stands with the same grace of a willow tree and moves to his other side so she can begin again. Silus admires her handiwork. He sees the hand of a wealthy man with gleaming half moon cuticles and knuckles unadorned with callouses and caked on dirt. He is at least comforted to see that being clean doesn’t wash away his maze of scars, all the souvenirs of fights, scuffles, victories, and defeats. He feels content to let the hand rest on the surface of the water, feeling the tension and closing his eyes once more.

 

It’s hard to tell how long she tends to him, moving silently from one area of his body to another, barely disturbing his doze, but it’s obviously an evening’s occupation for them both. Silus tunes in and out, alternately unaware of his surroundings and observing her with mild interest. Her eyes do not meet his the entire time, so intent on her work is she. Her hair often swings into her face, but she unfailingly tucks it into place behind an ear and continues, hardly bothered. Inevitably, Silus moves around enough that water splashes on her white shirt which, by and by, becomes more and more translucent. From half-lidded eyes, he ogles her swinging breasts and their dark nipples. He imagines their weight, the feel of her nipples hardening from his touch. The gasp she would make as he…

 

“Do you like your hair long?”

 

“Hmm?” 

 

She is suddenly behind him, arranging strands of his thick, black hair. Her nails dragging across his scalp feel amazing. “Do you like to wear your hair this long? It has grown… I thought you might want to cut it.”

 

Silus frowns, thinking of the brutally short new-recruit haircuts. Being allowed to wear it at the length of his chin had been a perk due to his status, but now? Now, it flowed lower than his shoulders, which would have been unthinkable. 

 

“Yes, I like it.”

 

“All right.” She gently situates his head so that it tilts back and wrings out a warm clothful of water over his forehead. Her light fingers brush the stray drops away from his eyes and agitate his hair in the water to wet it thoroughly. From a plastic bottle, she pours a strong, sweet-smelling syrup over her hands and rubs it through his hair, root to tip. It feels sticky, but foams quickly upon touching water, then makes his scalp feel tingly and releases a pleasing aroma reminiscent of peppermint.

 

“This is a salve of soaproot, herbs, and white ashes,” she murmurs when she notices him sniff the air. “It’s clean and a little astringent, so it kills pests and some of the herbs are healthy for your hair. I get it imported from California and I hope to grow it here, soon… the climate is right.”

 

The tea kettle whistles just then and she stands to tend to it, leaving Silus to his thoughts. It is the most likely that this…  _ care _ is her way of apologizing for the scene that caused him to flee. He still doesn’t know what the NCR offered to cause it, though he obviously knows now what they wanted. They must be desperate. He’s a gamble. Courier Six might appear to know his mind any hour of the day and night, but a load of uneducated, unskilled grunts? They’d only approve of his rotting body in a hole in the desert, never a… a...  work-release program like this… which means it’s the Courier’s doing. She must be honest about her offer of… of a home... with her. It seems the more he thinks about her, the more her motivations are a mystery. He stares at her back while she coughs loudly, pours the hot water into a vessel, then turns back to him.

 

“Here.” She hands him a ceramic mug, one of the less-cracked ones. In it is a warm, blood-red liquid that smells sour, but not off-puttingly so. “This is hibiscus tea. It’s supposed to be good for the blood. It should help you recover some that you lost.” 

 

Silus drinks while she rinses his hair. It tastes refreshing like cranberries. Within only a few moments, he has quaffed the entire mug and she takes the empty cup from him, her fingers accidentally brushing his. He doesn’t think, he just seizes her wrist before she can walk away, his enormous hands dwarfing hers. Silus looks at her hand, rough and used like his. He looks at her body, on captivating display in part due to the wet garment that clings to her every curve, but just as much due to her delicious proximity. He looks at her face, open and waiting for him, lips red and inviting, piercing eyes locked onto his… She hasn’t pulled away… she’s hasn’t commanded him to stop... He pulls her close and she follows, so close that she has to lean over the edge of the tub and steady herself with a hand on his thigh. He watches her eyes flick to his lips, then with a satisfied smirk, he pulls her in and kisses her like he has wanted to do since the moment they met.

 

His mouth captures hers for only a moment, but she astonishingly embraces him fully in return. She is soft and strong, moving her lips and tongue in practiced bites that match his hungry kisses. His tongue brushes against hers, and then is scraped teasingly along her sharp, nipping teeth to make him shiver. He sucks on her lower lip and her hands rise to tangle in his hair, scoring deeply across his scalp with a moan of longing. Again and again, he demands more from her and she rises to meet him, exploring every taste and sensation his mouth can give until it isn’t enough anymore. Her fingers grip his thigh as she steps completely into the tub to press her body against his, fitting her softness into the angles of his arms and legs. Silus grips her hair right at the base of her skull to hold her close while the other slides down the smooth slope of her back to caress her round, firm backside. She groans into his kiss and he realizes with a twitch of his cock that he is as rock-hard for her right now as when her flogger nightly opens his back.

 

Six is so responsive and so open to him that he doesn’t want to rush his enjoyment of her body, but his aching dick has other ideas. Silus lifts her by the ass until she is sitting almost over his cock, teasing her with the idea that he could thrust up into her whenever he wants. This brief respite leaves her free to kiss and nip his neck, and let her tits rest heavily on his chest while he composes himself once more. Her mark is bleeding freely again, darkening the bathwater, but he doesn’t care, not when his hand is caressing her firm breast, tweaking one hard bud until it is swollen and sensitive. Six bites her own lip, then lets her head fall back and expose the soft column of her neck for his teeth to tease and nibble. When she groans against his mouth, he knows that he can’t stand it a moment longer and seizes her hips in both hands. The water swishes around them, but he positions her over him anyway and helps her sink with a gasp onto his throbbing erection.

 

She is slippery wet and hot; much more so than the bathwater. Silus has to hold her still to keep himself in check, but even still he suspects he won’t last long. It’s been too long and he’s wanted her too dearly. The desire to thrust wildly, slapping against her is tempting, but at long last, she rests her hands on his broad shoulders and rocks her hips gently, pulling him deeper inside her, then releasing. The motion is heaven. He can hardly touch her for fear that she’ll stop and the gripping, teasing, luxuriant euphoria will stop with her. Her hips make generous circles that bring his manhood almost entirely unsheathed, but then sensually sink back to the hilt over and over. It’s a delicious crescendo that he longs to both speed and slow. His breath catches in his throat, unsure whether to laugh or cry or snarl, but knowing that something has to progress or the agonizing delight of it will kill him. The next time she sinks, he brings up his hips to meet her and is rewarded with a little gasp that ignites the fire of his loins. There is no stopping now.

 

Silus’s hands are large enough to encompass both of her buttocks, and he uses this as leverage to direct her ride now. He drives her faster and harder, not thrusting with nearly the same length as before, but bringing her down against him with a splash of water and a curse every time. She is trembling in his hands and her moans have turned into whimpers, accented in time with his thrusts. Her eyes are squeezed closed, holding on. Silus’ body is on fire. Every muscle is shaking, every bone has turned to paste, but he drives her down upon his cock harder and harder, chasing each coming crest. He braces his feet against the wood of the tub and penetrates her with such force that he nearly loses himself, but just at that moment, her eyes flicker open and lock onto his.

 

“Do it,” she whispers, raggedly. “Come for me.”

 

Silus decides right then that he wants that power, the power to make her come undone, and thrusts mightily enough against her to spend himself with a harsh growl. His climax seems to go on and on, filling her with months worth of desire. She clings to him as he shudders inside her and lets him come back to himself slowly. His heart slows, his hands cease their trembling... Eventually, he removes his hands from her back, and sees bruises from his thumbs in her flesh. Everything feels heavy, but expansive, like his limbs are floating away only an inch from the ground. Half of the tub water is now floor water, and still she waits, resting on top of him and not caring. Where is her shirt? Does it matter? She is warm and enveloping, still sitting on his flagging cock. It seems like there is nothing to say, but also no need. Slowly, he slides out of her and she sits up, coughing a little thickly and stretching her cramped hands.

 

He is reminded of his need. More gently this time, Silus takes her wrist and brings her hand to his mouth. His lips brush against her fingertips, cradle her palm, and flit along her wrist leaving a trail of skipping kisses. She tastes like warm skin, and smells like campfire and lavender. Her wide eyes watch him impassively for a moment, then she does something that takes him by surprise. She stands and hangs her legs off either side of the tub, which exposes her pussy to him. Then, she leans back and props herself up with arms reaching out behind her spread thighs.

 

“You have made a mess,” she says haltingly, “Clean it up.” Silus looks up and half of her face is bright pink, though her eye crinkles in a smile. A tingling sensation of pleasure washes over his skin at her command.

 

It is strange to think that so hard a woman could be hiding such delicate softness. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand and strokes her shining lips with a broad finger that dwarfs every part of her. She shudders sharply and he looks up immediately, but she is shaking her head. “No… it feels good.”

 

“Again?” he says, unable to think of more words.

 

“Yes.”

 

So he does. He lets his rough fingertips trace each folding petal, around and around, dancing around her Venus’ pearl and just barely dipping into her slick entrance. His semen is still dripping from her, coating her thighs, which is a sight that pleases him. Each pass of his fingers produces a new erotic noise from her, first just whimpers and gasps, but soon moans and muttered words. He watches her face intently and presses one finger deep into her, slowly. Six’s face opens in an asymmetrical O, and her brows come together with intensity while she respires with shuddering need. She seems to want to say something, but can’t think of the words, only grind against his hand and try to draw him deeper.

 

He withdraws and presses again this time with two fingers, and her pleasure becomes more lascivious. The muttering becomes whispered prayers that Silus can just barely make out. His fingers stroke her walls, exploring every inch of her velvety smooth texture with wonder. It is all new to him. Never before has he touched a woman like this, nor heard such an enthusiastic response. He lets his fingers curl and stretch her entrance while his thumb brushes with extreme discretion across her pearl.

 

“Use your mouth,” she says, breathily, obviously fighting to get the words out.

 

“What?”

 

She looks down at him over the tip of her nose. “Use your mouth and your tongue.”

 

After a startled moment, Silus withdraws his fingers and takes one thigh in each hand. She is open and waiting, lips blushing a deep pink. He leans forward and breathes deeply of her heady scent: campfire, lavender water, and salty feminine arousal. It’s dizzying.

 

“Go on,” she urges.

 

Silus steels himself, then presses his mouth to her lips. Her lusty groan is immediate and satisfying. It takes him a minute longer to accustom his tongue to the maze that is her body, but he is soon enough stroking her petals and teasing them with his teeth, gently nibbling. He swirls around her pearl once, twice… but not enough to build her pleasure. Let her anticipate a while longer. Instead, he busies himself with tasting her savory juices and drawing individual folds between his lips, teasing her. She, for her part, wriggles impatiently, trying to make his tongue connect with her throbbing clit to give her  _ some _ relief. He laughs quietly each time he angles his head to make her writhing futile and the vibration of his lips drives her wild.

 

“Silus…” she whines. “Silusss…”

 

He is filled again with the desire from before, the urge to make her succumb to her base needs, but most importantly, to be the one to  _ do it to her _ . Silus’ clear eyes flick up to her face, panting and waiting, almost at her wits’ end, and makes his decision. He takes her ass in both hands and plunges his face into her, thrusting his tongue deep into her core. His jaw probably hurts, but he doesn’t care because it’s  _ his _ name dripping slippery wet and raw from her lips,  _ his _ name she is cursing with the most slanderous profanity like the whores she protects. It curls like red-hot satisfaction in his chest to know he can make her be this blasphemous, irreverent animal.

 

“Ah!~” 

 

His head bobs obscenely as he plies himself, slurping her like a peach. She bucks and thrashes while she gasps, slapping the sides of the tub and slopping more water out than in. He holds onto her, but it’s like riding an untamed mustang; who knows what his mouth, lips, and teeth are touching? Silus laps her folds again and circles around to enter her, teasing the quivering entrance until she is moaning unintelligibly.

 

“...yes… Yes!” Six growls with eyes squeezed shut and white knuckle gripping the side of the tub. “...please. Please! Oh, God, Silus, Please!!”

 

By the grace of Venus, he reaches one hand around and manages to just brush his thumb across the right fold at the right time. The effect is instantaneous. Her body shudders so grossly that he has to grab her buttock to keep her from slipping off and doing herself some real harm. The strangled, choking moan that escapes her rings through the shack fair enough to rattle the windows. Her strong muscles clamp down hard on his tongue in rippling waves while her thighs buck on the side of the tub alternately squeezing and flexing. His fingers and tongue guide her down from the edge, letting her shiver and tremble her way to stillness, and finally slide back into the wooden arms of the tub. At last, she is reclining on top of his legs, totally relaxed and in a daze.

 

Silus licks his lips, amazed that she can taste sweet, salty, and savory all at once. There isn’t much point to the tub anymore, perhaps an inch of water is left at the bottom, so he stands and picks her up, one arm supporting her neck, the other at her knees. She is surprisingly light and it is no trouble to take her over to the bed and throw a blanket over both of them, even in their compromised states. With some interest, he watches her breathing slow until her chest hardly rises and falls.

 

“Why did you do it?” he asks, voice only a little above a whisper.

 

“Hm?” she rolls toward him and opens her eyes.

 

“Why… did you do it? Why did you free me from that McCarran jail cell when you were planning on interrogating me yourself? I didn’t think you were working that closely with the NCR…”

 

“I’m not,” she says pushing herself up on one elbow. “I’m… my own thing. The number of times  I’ve saved their bacon, though… I guess I can see how the Legion would think that. No…” she sighs and readjusts herself. “One of the stipulations that Lieutenant Boyd put in the contract that freed you was that, though I held control over your body, auctions, production, decisions, and so on… the NCR would be free to seize and question you as they please.”

 

Silus is not surprised. It seems like a clause that the devil bear would sneak in.

 

“I had no intention… that is to say, I never meant to go through with it. What are they going to do to me? I’m not one of their citizens and I control so many facets of New Vegas that killing me would throw the whole region into riotous chaos. Anyway… then they offered a price I couldn’t turn down and reminded me that they could lawfully come and get you at any time…” She shakes her head slowly. “There were a lot of factors at play.”

 

“You said it wasn’t about the money, though. You said that yesterday.”

 

She smiles her lopsided smile. “Believe it or not, that was this morning.”

 

“Oh.” Silus honestly didn’t remember.

 

“It’s still true, I don’t need the money. All of my caps are tied up now in owning the New Vegas bank, but when was the last time I really had to pay for anything? No… the money’s not for me. It was 500,000 caps. 500,000 caps buys a lot of blankets and clothes for Vegas citizens. Fertilizer for their crops… iodine to purify the water… medical supplies for the Followers… Money to refurbish old buildings and give the homeless new places to live. 500,000 caps to help my people.”

 

She has laid back on the bed now, her eyes have closed again. She seems to be exhausted. Silus thinks about the passion in her voice when she talks about helping New Vegas. For a city that she doesn’t even live in (by choice!), she seems to live every waking moment for improving its lot in life. Would Caesar speak this way? Would Vulpes? Lanius? Silus doesn’t think so. 

 

Gingerly, he crawls over her and out of bed. His feet still prickle at every step, but since their cleaning and rest it’s a minor inconvenience. Somewhere in the cabinet he locates a scrap of paper and a pencil and briefly sits at the kitchen table in the corner to write. Over his shoulder, Courier Six coughs again; wet, thick, and sticky. Hopefully her morning in the cold Mojave winter tracking him down didn’t give her a cold. He sketches and writes, then lays the pencil down and brings the paper to her.

 

“Here,” he says, gently shaking her awake again.

 

“What is this?” she takes the paper and scans it, the familiar wrinkle between her brows emphasizing her confusion.

 

“...It’s everything I know about Caesar and Fortification Hill’s defenses. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with him, but here’s a list of his symptoms and things he has said about it. The defenses of the fort are focused  _ here _ , but on this side there is a little gap…” he points to a stretch of wall where the lookout points are far apart.

 

“Silus…” she breathes, struggling to sit up fully. “Silus, this is amazing… that looks just like it! I remember exactly how that wall looked… and this one looks  _ exactly _ like Caesar… you are an amazing artist. Jesus, you should be doing that instead of farming yucca plants with me. Where did you learn to draw like this?”

 

He shakes the hair from his face and crawls back over her into bed. “Don’t know. I’ve been drawing out campaign maps and strategy diagrams for ages. It just seemed more expedient to get all the details of a sketch correct the first time.”

 

“This information… this will help a lot of New Vegas citizens… you know that, right? Opposite the Legion and everything?”

 

A scathing reply wells up inside him, but he looks into her wide, searching face and it dies on his tongue. “Yes,” he answers simply.

 

She smiles and hold the paper to her chest for a moment. One deep breath later and she stows it, folded precisely, into her leather briefcase by the bed. Then, she turns back to Silus and lightly cups his cheek in her hand. It’s still warm from the bath. “You’re a good man, Silus.” She presses her lips to his in the lightest, softest kiss he’s ever felt, then lays down and falls asleep instantly.

  
His fingers trace the feeling of hers across his mouth.  _ Good man? _ he thinks, bewildered.  _ Whatever that means. _ He soon lays down beside her and falls asleep with one arm thrown around her waist; holding her close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jesus, I wrote a really long chapter and there was porn in it and porn is really hard to write and it took forever... oh well, it's out here now.
> 
> I've been thinking about Amanda Palmer's interview wherein she spoke about learning to be comfortable with asking for what she wanted/needed and I've decided to take her advice and ask. Please leave comments on my stories, even if it's something dumb like "Kudos". Your interaction really does inspire me to keep writing.


	6. Disease Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shift in the household causes Silus to make a desperate decision. Can he save them both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, you guys... this was supposed to be a 3 chapter quickie and now look what happened... I just can't shut my big dumb mouth and here some more plot for you. *grumble grumble*

Silus knew something was wrong when he woke the next morning and saw her sleeping form still lying in bed next to him. Never once in the months they had lived together had he gotten out of bed first. Not only that, but she typically went to bed  _ after _ him as well. Actually… she had fallen asleep before him last night… unusual...

  
“Courier?” He props himself up on one elbow and leans close, whispering. “Courier?”

 

She doesn’t stir. The back of her neck is damp with sweat that darkens her hair. When he touches her shoulder, intending to wake her, he finds that it, too, is clammy with sweat. In fact, to his alarm, her entire half of the blanket is damp.

 

The touch, at least, has brought her to the surface. “thirsty…” she rasps, breathing shallowly. “...water?”

 

Silus vaults out of bed over her, seizes a mason jar from the wash basin, and bursts out the front door, completely heedless of his current state of undress. He dunks it in the cistern and rushes back inside, launching several wild splashes over the rim. He crosses the shack in three enormous strides and kneels, but nearly drops the glass when he sees her face.

 

She looks confused regarding her current status, the worried pinch between her eyebrows having made a startling comeback. Her skin is pale and shining with perspiration, but also has a sickly greenish cast to it. Dark circles under her eyes make her scar stand out in high relief, but it also has the effect of making her look like a cracked china doll. Silus takes her carefully by the slick back of her neck and tips the water into her lips, slowly.

 

“Drink this,” he says, “You’re thirsty because you’ve sweat all your liquid. You are dehydrated.”

 

After a few dribbles miss her mouth entirely, Six seems to get the idea and manages several mouthfuls. She coughs thinly and shivers. “So hot… burning…” she whispers, clutching the blankets closer.

 

Silus frowns and presses his wrist to her forehead. She feels cold, but is that because of her sweat? Is he cold from being outside? Uncertain, he peels the blankets back and observes her naked skin. All up and down her body, she is alternately blotchy and pale. Every inch of her is shining with sweat and she shivers more violently from exposure to the crisp morning air. She looks like the wet and drying perspiration feels itchy and uncomfortable. Silus looks around the shack, hoping that something will give him an idea of what to do and, seeing only the bathtub, he takes a fortifying breath and looks back at Courier Six’s weak, trembling form. 

 

Quickly, he covers her again and presses more water into her mouth. About half makes it in. Then he stands and takes the large metal washbasin outside and pumps furiously at the cistern to fill it. Some of this water he puts in a pot on the stove and the rest, he dumps in the tub, still taking up half the house. Again and again, he fills the washbasin and transfers it to the tub until there is enough there to be a decent soak, but not so much that she will slip under and drown herself. Then, he turns to the stove and tries to remember the correct way to stack logs for a fire. He thrusts the chips of wood wildly back and forth until they more-or-less resemble a tepee, then stuffs a wad of newspaper under and hesitantly touches a match to it. He is shaking so much he drops that one in the soft, dark ashes, so he tries again. And again. And again…  _ Silus, what are you doing? Has it really been so long since you had to start a campfire to cook dinner for the men? Pull yourself together! _  and then he can finally get a match to start the paper. A little anxious adjusting and insistent blowing on the embers create a perfectly adequate blaze and he can shut the iron door at last. He does so, breathes a sigh of relief, and checks on her.

 

She is not quite gasping for air, but her breaths are very shallow and accompanied regularly by quiet coughs that sound wet and sticky. She is still murmuring quietly about how hot she feels while clutching the blankets like a drowning woman, so he lets her be and crosses to the trapdoor beside the metal shelves.

 

Before he came here, Six had cut a clever square in the floorboards that she had then deepened by digging into a squarish pit down into the dirt. Straight below the house, only a few feet from the desert surface, was one of the frigid aquifers that fed the cistern outside and then continued flowing underground to feed the Colorado. The pit she dug came close enough to the water to benefit from its cooling influence and then she lined the small pit with bricks and installed a curved, metal tube that opened just outside to catch the desert breezes and further cool the space. A square lid lined with rubber and covered with a sewn burlap sack of hay kept the pit cold enough that on several freezing winter mornings, the contents had been covered with frost. This is where she keeps their few perishable goods: bottles of corn and olive oil, leftover cut fruits and meats, a few containers of prepared organ pates, and shining coffee cans of rendered animal fat. He opens one and gets a generous amount of solidified fire gecko fat and a healthy dollop of crushed garlic, which he transfers to a small metal bowl. After replacing the insulated lid and shutting the trapdoor, he fetches two carrots and onions from their sawdust sack in the woodshed. From yet one more tin on the metal shelves inside, he pulls out a few dried brahmin tail bones and sets them in their own bowl of water and vinegar to soak.

 

By this time, the water on the stove is boiling and he pours it into the tub. It’s enough to make a tepid bath, probably exactly what she needs to relieve the itching of her own salt-encrusted skin. He hopes. Silus again peels her out of the blankets and lifts her limp, dead weight. She can’t even find the strength to hold up her own head, much less throw her arms around his neck to help, so she is unwieldy and heavy but fortunately, the move to the bath is short. He settles her in carefully and sets about rubbing the sweat from her limbs. Within minutes, she has again dozed off to sleep. He thinks it’s a good sign. For now, he arranges her to sleep safely in the tub, then fetches his ingredients and stokes the fire.

 

It’s the work of moments to slice the carrots and onion in a melting puddle of fire gecko fat joined by the garlic and a pinch each of salt and pepper for flavor. When the smell of spice and roasting meat has permeated the shack, he throws in the brahmin tail bones and vinegar along with a fresh bucket of water. He covers it with a lid… and settles in to wait. 

 

It only takes ten minutes of sitting silently on the couch for him to realize that he is going to go crazy of idly waiting.

 

Silus sets about cleaning the shack with the kind of frenzied motivation usually reserved for a camp visit from Caesar himself. He makes the bed and washes every dish. He takes the soaked blanket out to dunk in a washtub of water from the cistern and folds it over the edge to dry. He checks and sorts all of the food according to its storage date. Somewhere in there, he takes down the dry clothes from the inside clothesline, washes an entirely new load, and hangs them up on the line. He polishes all of the shoes. He sweeps and mops the greying floorboards to clear away the dirt from gallons of bathwater spilled last night… then he mops it once again just to remind himself that it’s real… she really did open up to him… let him touch her, guide her while riding him… call his name in a fit of passion…

 

Unbidden, his body shudders with delight at the memory.

 

He drops the mop and returns to the tub.

 

She hasn’t woken again, but a little color has returned to her face and she seems to be sweating less. He decides that the cool bath was a good idea. Taking the washcloth, he softly brushes her forehead and cheeks clean, then lets it lay on her head to continue regulating her temperature. He presses his wrist to her forehead again. Maybe he is just really warm from his manic cleaning or she is very cool from the bath and exposure to the air, but he can’t tell whether she has a fever or not. He sighs through his nose and goes to check the broth, which is simmering nicely. Behind him, she coughs thinly. She just can’t seem to get a lungful of air and it bothers him for a reason that he  _ should _ remember… but can’t.

 

There’s nothing to do but wait.

 

He finishes his cleaning and sits heavily on the edge of the bed, gazing at her. He thinks about how this one woman has terrorized the most organized army in the country. The woman with the power to defy the two-headed bear nation. The secret power behind the last bastion of free tribes in the west, New Vegas. Here she is, weaker than a babe, coughing and sweating in some backwater ranch outside a radioactive crater of a town only barely out of striking range of any number of enemies. And he sits beside her. Watching.

 

He thinks about going outside to turn the fertilizer out of boredom, but when he stands, his foot bumps her leather briefcase and its contents spill across the floor. He hastily picks them up and fully intends to stuff them back in when he sees his own name and stops. Sneaking a look at her to see that she is still drowzing, he dares to read the rest of the line… 

 

_...Silus has been an immense help. I would have my hands completely full were it not for his efficient discharge of the harvesting and the canning. I look forward to seeing many more of his capabilities through the winter. _

 

_ I fear I will have to return to Vegas soon. The Kings have started another turf war with the NCR volunteers and Arcade can’t get me more information without tipping his hand. See if Boone can still pull some weight with Corporal Sterling, will you? He seems to know the news from everywhere. (I said as much in his letter.) If all else fails, I’ve been saving a favor. Here’s hoping I don’t have to spend it yet.  _

 

_ I am so pleased to hear that you convinced the Brotherhood to send a representative to the table. I guess having a new source of knowledge really shifted their priorities, huh? Their tech knowledge could be the saving grace of Vegas’ electric and water facilities if they’ll only open their clutching, selfish hands a little. Obviously, this will be a long-term goal. _

 

_ Give my love to everyone. Tell Raul I can’t wait to see his electric toaster gun; it sounds just implausible enough to work. I miss you, but I’ll see you soon and we’ll have a real catchup. _

 

_ -6 _

 

Oops, he read the whole thing.

 

This seems like a letter due to go out with the next trader on the road. He recalls the last hateful, slimy little trader saying that she had received replies… were those in here as well? A little guiltily, he places the briefcase and papers to one side and makes a circuit of the house. The broth is leaching properly but it won’t be ready for hours, so he also puts on a kettle… her washcloth is rewet and settled around her neck… the cool larder and lockers are all closed and secured… 

 

He tries not to dive eagerly onto the bed to search for the letters and fails miserably.

 

The briefcase is full of papers, notebooks, farming manuals, charts with long lists of numbers, and pens and pencils of every kind, but a little determined digging uncovers the very thing he wanted to see; three opened letters with three drastically different hands all addressed to “Courier Six”. He snatches the paper from the first envelope and reads a short message in a curt, blocky hand.

 

_ NCR ambassador is a fucking prick. Won’t submit any goddamn paperwork on visas for visiting soldiers. Says there’s no clause for it in the treaty or precedence with other nations. Makes me want to send him on a long boat ride upstream of Hoover Damn. _

 

It isn’t signed. It seems the Courier’s team is trying out methods of making an independent New Vegas seem legitimate to other groups. Silus is impressed, despite himself. It’s a very diplomatic move and could be a valid tactic, were she not dealing with the most arrogant and condescending of 'nations'. He replaces the paper and opens the next letter. It's written in a half numbers-half letters code that he doesn't feel like deciphering just now. The only thing immediately recognizable is the signature, Arcade Gannon, but other than his association with the Courier, the name means nothing to Silus. He shrugs and opens the final letter, a little thicker than the others, and signed Veronica.

 

_...It’s been 3 and a half MONTHS since you left to go play house with your new Legionary boy-toy and everything is going to hell in a handbasket. Arcade and Boone won’t stop fighting. Every time Arcade quotes something in Latin, Boone starts muttering about useless academic types, which makes Arcade get uppitier and spout off MORE Latin and crazy philosophies until they’re standing on opposite sides of the kitchen screaming stupid names at each other all night. God, I wish they’d whip it out and measure already. It’s getting hard to sleep.  _

 

_ In other news, Elder McNamara finally agreed to send a Knight to Vegas for the meeting of the tribes! It’s not much (especially considering the contingent the Omertas are sending) but it’s at least enough to open the lines of communication. You might owe him a favor or two for the courtesy, he says. _

 

_ So… what’s he like? The way Boyd describes him, I would expect the physique of a fricasseed ant carcass stuffed into Legion sports gear armor with the intelligence of a baby mole rat. You’ve been really TIGHT LIPPED on the subject, so I imagine you have stories to tell about his... _

 

The tea kettle whistles and he puts the letter back with a snort of derision. Mindless drivel. A teenager mooning over the latest novelty. He removes the pot from direct heat and sprinkles a palmful of dried hibiscus tea into the empty mason jar followed by a generous stream of steaming water. 

 

Behind him, Six begins to cough.

 

It sounds like all her others at first but then it persists much longer than it should. She gasps raggedly for breath between each wracking spasm, but no matter how hard she tries, the fit continues. Silus kneels by her side and holds the bottom of the hot tea jar against the tub water, trying to cool it.

 

“Get it out,” he encourages, holding her elbow to steady her.

 

A particularly loud cough sounds for a moment like something has finally loosened in her chest, but nothing comes up and she settles back again, shaking with weakness and whimpering.

 

“Drink this… it will soothe your throat.”

 

Six makes a quiet noise of protest but is frankly too sick to wave him away. He tips a satisfying mouthful past her lips and sits back on his heels to see how she takes it. After a moment, she swallows and sighs with relief. Silus lets himself breathe again and slumps forward until his head touches the garden hose edging. Maybe she can sleep again and let the illness pass faster.

 

All at once, she surges up over the side of the tub and noisily vomits all the liquid she has consumed, now tinged alarmingly hibiscus red and floating thickly with viscous, green infection. Silus leaps to his feet, cold with fear. He knows now how much danger she is in and how blind he has been not to see it sooner.

 

A few years ago in Flagstaff, the walls of the city were sealed to quarantine a plague. Silus happened to be home on leave at that time and was trapped inside with hundreds of other citizens, politicians, soldiers, and slaves. This tragic stroke of luck caused him to witness the chaos that happens when a city is brought to its knees from the inside. First, the disease started with weak, syrupy coughing, leading doctors to believe at first that the plague was airborne. The victim could cough for up to a week if they were hale and strong of heart, but often, the disease incubated rapidly, spreading the infection to other parts of the body, probably through the bloodstream. Other organs would become glutted with phlegm to fight the infection, which would ultimately be the body’s downfall as it drowned in its own putrid juices, unable to function. The corpses had to be burned thoroughly and buried immediately without any funeral or else anyone who touched the seeping fluids would catch the plague as well. 

 

Silus, miraculously, caught a weakened form of the plague near the end of the infestation and was both strong enough and lucky enough to recover. Half the city didn’t. He remembers laying in his house, shivering and moaning, only able to hear the coughing of the dying in the street and smell the sickly meaty scent of burning corpses. He feels sick to his stomach just thinking about it.

 

But… how did Six get the coughing plague? The disease moved quickly and required physical contact to spread. When had she last been near a sick person? She hadn’t touched any of the Legionaries at Searchlight Airport and she hadn’t left the shack in (according to Veronica’s letter) three and a half months…

 

_ Oh… _

 

_ Oh, no… _

 

“I did this to you…” whispered Silus in horror. The disease must be latent in his body, harmless to him who survived the outbreak, but deadly to anyone else in close contact. And they’ve been sharing a bed for  _ at least _ a month, not to mention other activities.

 

He pulls Six back into a sitting position in the tub and uses the washcloth to wipe the  _ not _ blood from her mouth. Over her delirious protests, he forces more tea down her throat. If he gives it to her in little sips, her stomach might not rebel, and staying hydrated is now more important than ever. After thinking about it, he fetches the blanket she sweat into from the side of the cistern and uses it to mop up her infected vomit. He takes the whole mess outside and buries it deeply, far away from the house and animals. He even rolls a large rock overtop, hopefully to prevent scavengers from becoming too curious. He rests his hands on its rough surface, breathing a little and letting his eyes unfocus.

 

The house is calling and he shouldn’t leave her alone for too long, but his feet won’t take him back yet, so he sits heavily on the rock and looks to the west where the sun is only a few precious hours from setting. She has been symptomatically sick for at least two days, he thinks, recalling how frequently she coughed the day before. She was a strong woman, no doubt, but once the infection spread like that, she was on a sure countdown to death. 24 more hours and he would lose the one person who cared whether he lived or died. His heart feels heavy with sorrow, as though it were she buried underneath the rock and not merely her ruined blankets.

 

_ All the latest news, coming your way right now... _

 

What’s that? Her radio up by the graves is still on, which means it has been broadcasting through the night. Yet another sign that she was not fully in command of her senses. He berates himself harshly for his inattention but listens to the welcome distraction anyway.

 

_ There's word from Camp McCarran that an attempt to bomb its monorail system was foiled by an alert civilian contractor. Witness descriptions are remarkably similar to accounts of the Goodsprings courier who, as we reported, survived a gunshot to the head. Security is being tightened. _

 

He freezes and stares up the hill. Didn’t she mention a doctor in Goodsprings, the one who brought her back from the brink of death with his medical expertise? Doc… Marshall? Michael? Something with an ‘M’... Goodsprings wasn’t too far, either, less than a day’s hard march and if anyone outside the New Vegas Clinic could save her, it just might be him. Silus looks back at the house, then over the hill to the west again, measuring the remaining daylight and thinking hard. If he leaves right now and doesn’t stop for anything, they could make it… Yes... he could definitely make it.

 

Leaping to his feet, Silus feels alive with the promise of a plan. He dashes back to the house and begins rifling through the cabinets to get dressed and don a sturdy leather belt as well as appropriate marching boots. He chooses a few accessories to stuff into the legs of a hardy pair of canvas cargo pants but limits himself severely to keep the extra weight from slowing him down. A small handgun, a packet of jerky, a few bandages and stimpacks in case his feet tear open… not much else is vital enough to bring.

 

Next, he dresses her warmly. She was complaining of discomfort earlier, sure, but her skin is decidedly cold to the touch now and she’ll soon have trouble producing her own heat, so he puts her in a tunic and trousers, her leather duster and a knit wool cap. He lays her sideways on the couch to thrust her feet into some less-holey socks and light shoes. Finally, he dips a mug into the not-quite-ready bone broth and presses it to her mouth.

 

“We’re going on a trip,” he says quietly, hoping to comfort her. “I need you to drink some of this to keep you strong and get ready to hold on tight, but I’m going to take you to the doctor to make you better.” He hesitates and brushes his fingertips across her brow. “You’re going to be alright.”

 

Her eyes open at his words, but can't seem to focus on his face. "Briefcase..." she breathes, gesturing minutely with one hand, "bring it..."

 

"It will be safe here. It will just slow us down..."

 

"Briefcase!" she repeats more insistently, making herself dissolve into another coughing fit.

 

Silus rubs her back and quickly capitulates. "Ok, ok, we'll bring it. Don't get upset!" He goes to the bed right away and puts all the letters back inside. "Here... here it is. I'll bring it along."

 

This seems to calm her and he throws the strap of it over her shoulders. As an afterthought, he drinks a mug of broth, too. He has forgotten to eat today and he can’t possibly run to Goodsprings only on yesterday’s tea. He banks the fire and takes the last sheet from their bed. With one almighty rip, he tears the whole thing in half, lengthwise. He twists each half until it resembles two long ropes and approaches Six. Careful not to jostle her enough to lose the little broth she drank, he situates her on his back and ties her on; one sheet-rope at her knees secures them to his waist and the other circles under both their arms to tie at his chest. Now he can run freely without worrying about her falling off or having to hold herself on.

 

He tugs at the knots once more to reassure himself, checks the embers of the stove to be sure they are dying, then exits, closes the door behind him, and sets off at a steady run towards Nipton and salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that not only am I not a medical professional and my take on a disease and treatment should not EVER be considered valid... but neither is Silus, so if there's something incongruous about the plague he is describing, go ahead and chalk it up to ignorance on his part.
> 
> The outpouring of affection from last chapter's comments is DEFINITELY a contributing factor to the speed and volume of content being produced this evening. If you like this outcome, please feel free to continue commenting to your heart's content. I appreciate every word.


	7. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silus desperately rushes to save Six and thinks about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 3 CHAPTERS LONG WHAT HAPPENED???
> 
> Addtl: If you are easily triggered 1) what are you doing here? 2) this chapter might not be good for you.

If there were any indication that his aerobic training was sorely lacking, this was it: jogging while carrying a delirious woman fully half his size across the Nevada desert has proven to be a much greater challenge than previously thought. He supposed that she was somewhat heavier than his typical soldier’s kit and sure, New Vegas sits on a high desert without a drop of moisture in the air, but he is panting raggedly and feeling clenching cramps before Nipton is even in sight. Several times, he has to stop and adjust his falling leg wrappings, retighten the bedsheet harness, dig out a rock, etc. but he pushes through all the discomforts and pain knowing that his journey has so far yet to go. For what feels like the dozenth time, he stands, resituates Six, and resumes his jog, winding around the curving foothill road until it opens onto a straightaway and he can see his first landmark.

 

Nipton sits beside the highway at the bottom of the hill below Wolfhorn Ranch. Silus remembers the announcement that the Legion had razed the town and purified it citizens, but the evidence writ large on the landscape is so much more visceral than a second or third-hand account.

 

From what remains, it looks like Nipton was a simple crossroads town with a few small ranch-style houses and one general store. Not far away, some ancient, rusted Airstream trailers are parked inside a collapsed fence, indicating a camping area. He knows that the town had been resettled by a group of roving Powder Gangers and turned into a trap for unsuspecting travelers… and also what happens to such groups routed by the Legion.

 

Tall telephone poles and crossbeams are the new trees lining the main street. Most of the makeshift crosses are still standing, though stark and empty now. He jogs under their shadows, imagining the moans of the criminals, hanging heavily from railroad spikes driven into wrists and feet. The noise would have been accompanied by the smell of blood, flame, and ash. There is no fire anymore, just a blasted black spot before the town hall where a bonfire once towered high, burning like the raging, merciless justice of Caesar. There is no such sound anymore. No whimpers of the punished, no screams of the survivors, no Vulpes and his noisome, smug voice detailing the crimes and rewards of the rabble... It’s just wind and shadows now.

 

One corpse remains on a crucifix, though it is in bad shape. Carrion birds and other scavengers have picked it clean, including severing the cartilage that kept one leg attached - it lies in a broken heap on the ground below. The punishing Nevada sun has bleached the bones, revealing every crack and fissure. When he looks closer, the bones are swarming with tiny insects enjoying a feast of rotting marrow.

 

Six coughs weakly and mumbles into his neck. He leans his head against hers for a moment, then moves on, past the general store and once again on the open road.

 

Beyond Nipton there is a choice. The safe, dependable route lies ahead, a long, flat stretch of highway that rises up the mountain toward Mojave outpost and eventually curves towards Primm. There are likely few bandits, NCR troops, or dangerous creatures to block his path. The other option, offroad, is a dry, flat lake bed to the north. A constant whistling wind stirs its sand like a blistering oven and though it would ultimately be faster to cross, he would also be an easy target for a marksman or any kind of creature looking for a meal. He looks at both options, then back at Six, who is muttering a constant stream of inaudible, delirious nonsense with her pale, cracked lips and the choice seems made for him.

 

Silus turns off the path and begins sprinting, down over the bank of the road and across the flat plane. The hard sand is easier to run on than the broken asphalt; sturdy enough to keep his footing, but forgiving enough to ease the intense, repetitive impact on his ankles and knees. On the other hand, it has had all morning to soak up the sun and it is swelteringly hot. The burning wind is at an angle to them, carrying its cutting sand, so Silus must turn Six’s face away. He checks periodically to be sure that her face isn’t crusting over, then settles into a steady pace.

 

Right, left… right, left… with nothing else to distract, the constant motion of running becomes a physical meditation. He could be running for minutes, he could be running for hours… it all feels that same as his feet fall evenly one after the other. Six’s weight on his back swings to and fro like a sturdy barracks hammock. It puts him in mind of the long hours he spent training in Flagstaff, ambitiously striving to become a centurion. In homage to ancient Romans, the exercising men would train during the hottest part of the day wearing only a loincloth and oil to prevent overheating and chafing. It was a real feeling of camaraderie, racing each other, insulting and teasing the best and the worst to pull everyone forward. When the sun began to set, they would visit the baths together and don clean tunics to eat in the great dining tent, usually sitting around a fire with bowls of slow-roasted spiced meat. Silus thinks about how spoiled his younger self was. They were like prize pigs, given everything they could want from the hands of curvaceous women and fawning slaves.

 

What a crude mess he had made of sex, then. For unmarried non-commissioned soldiers, a dozen women or more were made available for personal use, though more than once a woman would be shared around a fire. He recalls many evenings when he bent a slave over, kicked her knees apart, then rutted like a filthy animal. He would use the barracks-girls to his own satisfaction, then send them back to their holding pens, limping and crying. A flood of memories rise to the surface; bare breasts and long lithe limbs in a variety of positions and a shifting range of willingness demonstrated by sobbing, tear-streaked faces, angry purple bruises, and red-spanked bottoms. 

 

The thoughts don’t fill him with anticipation like before. He used to look forward to seeing a woman in whatever position he could fit her and the depraved things they would do to avoid a heavy cuff or a stinging slap… not like the woman on his back now. A woman who touched him with a knowing hand and moaned his name with desire. A woman who, with only a look, could bring him to the point of frenzy and beyond. A woman who handed out lashes as effectively as praise, unintimidated by his size and strength... Now  _ that _ was a titillating thought.

 

“Oof!”

 

In his fog, he has lost his mindfulness and stepped in a hole, joggling poor Six, who coughs thickly and spits green. The sand is just as burning to his hands as to his feet, he thinks, picking them up. He rolls his ankle until he decides that it probably isn’t twisted or sprained, and then reaches over his shoulder to wipe away the green slime from her mouth before it stains her white shirt. Silus wipes the mess on his cargo pants, then feels Six’s sweating forehead and frowns.

 

“...thirsty…” she whispers, her voice breaking.

 

From a pocket, he pulls a bottle and tips a little in her mouth. Despite the heat of the dry lake bed, she is shivering from head to toe; not a good sign. Fortunately, the great rollercoaster of Primm rises ahead, shining in the midday sun. There, he can take a break long enough to change his foot bandages and shove some jerky in his mouth before the long push to Goodsprings, which is absolutely necessary because his leg wrappings are gradually becoming stained a dull, rusty red. His feet wounds must have opened during his trek across the dry lake, but luckily he tied the cloth bandages tightly enough not to notice any pain over the throbbing ache of his entire body. Less luckily, now that he has noticed the injury again, a prickling pain is beginning to echo through his bones. He has a limited amount of time before the pain catches up with him and he is forced to stop.

 

Once again, he checks that Six is secure in her bedsheet harness, and sprints toward Primm. Within short order, however, he is brought up short by a steep shelf of rocks and boulders. Six’s breath rattled in his ear, prompting him to grab onto the first one and haul himself up, over and over. His arms and legs burn with the effort of lifting them both, not to mention the thin material of his trousers is starting to wear through with holes. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the last, insurmountable rock to catch his swimming, choking breath. He jumps and grabs, but gains no purchase and slides back, cutting his hands open. The wounds immediately fill with stinging grit. He jumps again, harder, and bangs his chest hard enough to bruise, but grasps something and holds on for dear life. With a groan of effort, he flexes his tired biceps and hauls them up an inch so his toes can push off from the rock as well to help. Agonizing inch by inch, he summits the rock shelf and collapses on his side, seeing stars and breathing erratically for quite a long while.

 

He becomes aware, presently, that Six’s muttering has become audible once more. If he turns his head toward her and holds his breath, he can hear her reciting as if in school before a class of peers, “...et primitus oritur herba imbribus primoribus evocata... the grass which is called forth by the early rains is just growing...” The rest is garbled.

 

Silus has no idea what this could mean.

 

He decides that he shouldn’t lie there any longer lest the vultures come next for him. He stands and shuffles pathetically through the back gate of Primm.

 

He isn’t stopped by anyone; in fact, there are no citizens of Primm on the streets. Some houses on a side street look recently occupied but are clearly of less significance than the two, brightly lit casinos in the center of town. That is where the people most likely spend their time, working and leisure both.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, he walks toward them, but spots another sign and swiftly changes course, ‘Mojave Express’. Isn’t that where her name originated? Wasn't she formerly a Mojave courier? He knocks on the shop door and enters before the sun and heat and pain make him collapse.

 

It’s not much cooler inside, but it’s less bright and there is no sand to sting his eyes. Instead, there is an aged gentleman in the garb of a working farmer leaning on a clean, white counter. Behind him are many honeycomb mailboxes with twinkling metal hooks, some bearing little keys. A pile of mechanical junk occupies the end of the counter he isn’t leaning upon, but he’s all eyes on Silus.

 

“You look worse for wear, youngster.” His voice is as worn and leathery as his ruddy face.

 

“I…” Now that he’s here, he isn’t sure what to do next. “I’m…”

 

The man regards him with a reserved expression. “Well… out with it.”

 

He steels himself for a bark of disapproval and an evening’s worth of punitive exercise. “I’m bleeding, sir.”

 

“I can see that.”

 

Does the man plan on nickel and diming him to death? Through gritted teeth, Silus asks, “Will you help me?”

 

“All you had to do was ask. Let me fetch Ruby.” The man groans as though  _ he _ were the one who had just run all morning from Wolfhorn and limps to the back. Silus hears the creaking of stairs and the sound of the man conversing urgently with a woman’s quavery voice. He grasps the counter with his bleeding, aching hands - probably grinding the sand in more deeply - then hears two sets of feet return.

 

“You weren’t kidding,” says the quavery voice. “Go put on a pot of water to boil and get the spare sheet. We’re going to need it.”

 

“Please,” says Silus, crumbling with shame for his weakness. “I have to get her to Goodsprings before it’s too late. Whatever you do, please do it with all haste.”

 

The woman who must be Ruby points a threatening wooden spoon at him. “Now you listen here: there will be no person in this here town who I do not treat to the best of my ability, most especially not our good Courier. You are going to lay her down  _ here _ , then sit in that chair and wait your turn, young man.”

 

Appalled, Silus does as he is told. He tries and fails to undo the knots of Six’s bedsheet harness, necessitating another embarrassing assistance from the old woman, but still has the strength to lay her on the counter, face up. At once, Six begins to choke. She coughs violently and spasms with alarming strength until they, together, turn her onto her side. A little air manages to pass her cracked lips and she blessedly returns to her inert unconsciousness. Silus watches anxiously as Ruby listens to her chest and feels for her pulse, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.    
  


“My mother taught me never to say something 'less it was nice," she prattles, her voice shaking with indignation, "but still I told her not to live in that isolated little house, I did. ‘Something awful will happen and then where will you be?’ and look here, exactly what did I...”

 

“Now, Ruby,” says the man, placatingly, coming back to the front room. “The boy’s worried enough and your water’s boilin’.”

 

Ruby leaves in a huff and the man returns to his seat behind the counter, fixing Silus with an appraising stare. “Name’s Johnson Nash. Things have been tough around here for a while, now. It started with that breakout from the prison up the road. Then it was the NCR, missin’ what they’d never had but the Courier, here, sorted them both out right quick. We hear about her doings on the radio pretty often. Still, Ruby was in a high temper when she found out the girl was livin’ outside the walls of the city. Awful concerned about her safety… we all are.”

 

The implication was not lost on Silus. “I’m trying to take her to the doctor to save her life.”

 

“I think you are, youngster,” he says inclining his head, “I think you are. Still… hard to trust the word of a redskirt.”

 

Silus looks up sharply. “You know what I am?” He can hear Vulpes sneering at his lack of subtlety. He tells him to fuck off in his mind.

 

 “It’s hard to shake the march, I guess." Johnson nods and indicates the wheezing Courier between them. "She seems to trust you, though. Never seen her let anyone help her out, much less a man like you.”

 

“What about…”

 

But the return of Ruby Nash cuts off any further question he could have. She carries with her a strong smelling jar giving off hot steam. From it, she plasters a thick, green poultice all over Six’s chest and binds it in place with a wide strip of cloth. Ruby also administers a syringe of something clear into her arm and quickly blots the entry point with a cotton ball. With remarkable tenderness, the old woman feels the young one’s forehead once more, then turns to the man twice her size.

 

Ruthlessly, she tears the boots and bindings from Silus’s feet and reveals the devastation underneath. His skin is mottled in every color of the rainbow except the one they’re supposed to be. Black toenails, purple heels, blue and green and yellow bruises, oozing red slashes… Ruby looks up at him with a cocked eyebrow, then sets about her task, washing and drying what skin remains. Johnson even helps her smooth a numbing paste over the wounds then apply a stinging antiseptic. At each knee, she applies a full syringe of violet Med-X, then tightly packs each foot with fresh cotton and binds it more tightly and efficiently than he ever could. A little antiseptic makes it onto each of his hands as well, and they, too, are bound firmly with cloth.

 

“She’s in bad shape,” says Ruby, tying off the last bandage, “but I suppose you knew that already.”

 

“Yes… it’s a disease in her lungs,” he says thickly, a little fuzzy from the Med-X. “I think the doctor in Goodsprings might be the only one who can help her.”

 

She purses her lips and nods. “Well, it’s going to be a hell of a walk for you. You’ve got to go out of town and turn at Jean Skydiving. Then, it’s another hour up the mountain. Doc Mitchell is in the big house past the tavern. Lots of folks go to him for their worse scrapes.”

 

“Here,” says Johnson, unexpectedly returning. Silus hadn’t noticed him leave. “There’s too much junk on your feet to fit into those leather scraps you were wearing before. Take these.” He holds out an enormous pair of hiking boots. Thick, well-soled treads, high, tightly lacing ankle support… Once his feet are secure inside, Silus feels as though he could scale Mt. Charleston itself. He swallows and meets Johnson’s eyes.

 

“Why?” He meant to say ‘thank you’, honestly, but that’s not the thing that came out.

 

Nash breathes through his nose and inclines his head toward Six. “If there was anyone who believed in second chances… it’s her.”

 

Together, they all saddle her on his back and see him out the door on the promise that they’ll stop by on their way back through for some radscorpion casserole.


	8. Hell or High Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So close, and yet so far away.

Silus’s mind was quiet on the way out of Primm. He was thinking about the elderly couple at the Mojave Express. On their advice, he left town through a gap in the iron fence to the north rather than down the street in full view of the NCR camp and he was impressed by their immediate inclination to help; not for his sake, obviously, but for Courier Six’s. He knew that Six was a big name in the New Vegas territory, but though she was public enemy no. 1 in Legion camps, he hadn’t realized what tremendous influence she had over the state as a whole. It only became more and more baffling that she was content to farm in a shack in the Nevada outback instead of wielding her power from a very real throne on the Strip since it was very likely that no one would argue if she were to make a diplomatic move like that. He couldn't imagine that happening with Caesar.

 

She chose to walk away from all the glory and work as an invisible background player, only enacting policies and encouraging political machinations through letters that had to travel by trader and courier to and from major popular seats. While Caesar frequently sent his agents to deliver messages, punishments, and rewards across Arizona, it was always done with the full weight and authority of the August, never in these subtle pulls of the string. 

 

He felt the leather briefcase bounce against his leg with every stride and wondered if he should open it to discover the secrets of her influence, but felt the fevered heat rolling off her body and sprinted more quickly.

 

His thighs were burning in short order. The highway, as promised, rose steeply outside Primm’s city limits and while he was more refreshed than expected by his stop at the Mojave Express, it hadn’t been a panacea. Not only that, the road was infested with aggressive geckos of all colors. Silus had to stop more than once to snipe them down with the little pistol before they could overwhelm him and bite Six. 

 

When the last in the pack went down, he checked his bullets. Only a few left. Not so good. He loads them in and settles the pistol back in the leg pocket of his abused cargo pants before he takes off, hoping he won’t need them.

 

At the top of the long hill, past some overturned semi’s and dilapidated buildings, he could finally see the Goodsprings water tower and he nearly laughed with insane relief. Another half mile or so’s run up that hill and he would find the doctor, who would surely know how to save Six’s life before she drowned in her own phlegm.

 

“Look, Six,” Silus murmurs over his shoulder as he feeds her another sip of water. “It won’t be long, now.” She shivers and doesn’t hear him. Most of the water falls out of her mouth. His stomach turned with fear. With renewed panic, he sprinted past the disorderly piles of bricks and broken concrete. 

 

A small shack ahead indicates the turnoff for Goodsprings. Jean, he thinks it’s called; Jean Sky Diving. A man in a blue jacket sits in a chair not far from the front door, polishing a shotgun.

 

“Hey, mister,” he calls out in a high, nasally voice when he sees Silus. “Hey, mister, come here. There’s a toll to pass on this road, you know.”

 

Silus waves him off. “I don’t have the caps or the time!” Silus turns toward the twisting road up the hill, but another man in a blue jacket is blocking his path, bouncing a heavy tire iron in his hands as if to test the weight.

 

“I think you’d better make the time,” he says in a deeper, rumbling voice. “Or we’ll have to take our price another way.”

 

With immense irritation, Silus squares up and balls his hands into fists, wishing the pistol was in a more convenient pocket. “You’re about to make a big mistake,” he snarls. “I  _ said _ I don’t have the time for your insulting games, now get out of the way.” Goodsprings water tower beckons over an outcropping of bare rocks, so closely within reach.

 

“Look at this tough guy,” says the man with the nasally voice, “Thinks he’s going to blow past us, doesn’t he? He doesn’t realize who’s in control, now, eh?” 

 

A third man holding a stick of dynamite and a lighter emerges from around back of the shack. “He’s gonna.”

 

Silus finally realizes why all three men are wearing blue jackets. The little patch on front reads “NCR CR”. They’re from the correctional facility to the east. They’re powder gangers… and they  _ hate _ the Courier.

 

No, no… it’s ok. They have no idea who they are. As far as the men are concerned, Silus and Six are just two, random travellers on their way from one place to another. At least they only seem to be concerned with money.

 

“Look, fellas,” says Silus holding up his hands as though with fear, “This is clearly a big misunderstanding. That being said, I really don’t have any caps so maybe there’s some other way we can work this out.”

 

“I dunno, what do you think Charlie?” asks the man with the tire iron.

 

The nasally voiced man sneers. “I’m thinking the sleepy missus on his back might be able to help a man out, if you know what I mean. One look at her and… and… wait a minute...”

 

Silus’s blood runs cold.

 

She isn’t wearing her mask.

 

He never put on her gas mask.

 

“What’s wrong?” The man with the lighter flicks it open and shut.

 

“Well… it’s just… no, it couldn’t be. Eddie  _ said _ she might be coming this way, but I never thought… Louis!” he barks to the man clutching the tire iron, “get the rest of the boys from the camp and send the fastest to get Eddie. I think… I think this is the Courier.”

 

Louis looks both ecstatic and terrified. Dropping the iron in his haste, he sprints at an enviably well-rested pace and within very short order, five more men in blue jackets arrive along with their various weaponry. Silus curses inwardly; the squad leader Charlie had the presence of mind to press both barrels of his shotgun right against the base of Silus’ neck to prevent any heroic escapes and now he can't possibly make a run for it with only the bullets he has left. Maybe this ‘Eddie’ can be convinced that they’ve got the wrong woman… but he highly doubts it.

 

While Silus plans several impossible escape routes, the six remaining men begin arguing loudly about whether or not she really is Courier Six. According to New Vegas rumour, Six is supposed to be seven feet tall with only half a face, bleeding bones, and actual lasers shooting from her eyes; or so the men say. She also apparently has a squadron of trained deathclaws obeying her every command… or maybe it was nightkin.

 

“You’re all idiots,” says Charlie, not letting up his grip on the shotgun. “Here’s a woman with the spider scar on her face right after Eddie let us know she’d be on the move. I don’t care if she’s a crippled midget with pistols for legs, we’re  _ staying put _ until he has a look.”

 

“Let me cut her face,” says a new man, brandishing a switchblade. “I’ll do her for killing Mac… c’mon…”

 

“No! Absolutely not!”

 

“If you get her face, then I get a finger.”

 

“Fingers and toes!”

 

“Slice off her tits!”

 

“No! Get a hold of yourselves!”

 

Before this tide of insanity can be swept too far, one man stops them with a shrill whistle. “Look sharp,” he says urgently. “Eddie’s here..”

 

All six men in blue close tight around them both while an obviously important man with an honor guard approaches at speed. Every man is wearing the same blue jacket uniform, but the ones who are arriving are also wearing black kevlar security vests. It feels much like a disciplinary tribunal.

 

“Where is she?” says the man in the middle, probably Eddie. He turns out to be a tall, white man with reddish hair. If his face wasn’t twisted with smug arrogance, he might even be handsome.

 

Suddenly, three men descend upon Silus. They tear off the bed sheets that hold Six against him and seize his arms so he can’t stop them from taking her and throwing her on the ground before Eddie’s feet. She barely flinches.

 

A very large, beefy man just behind Eddie reaches down and picks her up by the neck with one burly hand. He roughly shakes her head so her hair swings off of her face, exposing her beautiful spiderweb scar, and presents this to his boss. 

 

“Don’t!” pleads Silus, straining against his many captors. “Don’t do that, she’s---” then his sentence is ended with a stiff punch to the stomach. Eddie laughs nastily.

 

“Well done, gentlemen; you’ve landed the big one. This here is our good friend Courier Six; you remember Six, don’t you? The cunt who blew up our east tower, killed more than a dozen of our brothers and left them out to rot after stripping their corpses? Of course, you do. Say ‘hi’, boys.”

 

The men yell curses, kick her boots, and spit on her. Two more men need to pile onto Silus’ arms to keep him back. Someone pulls out a rope and ties his legs together, forcing him to his knees.

 

“Now, I don’t know who this sad fucker is, but I heard that the bitch got herself a Legion plaything and I think this asshole might look pretty good wearing red.”

 

Someone kicks him square in the temple and his vision goes black for a second. He wakes up freezing cold and wet, like a bucket of well water had been dumped on him. God, he hopes it’s water and not stale piss.

 

“-know you have been coming up with all sorts of appropriate punishments for our girl, but we’re gentlemen, see? There’s a precedent for this and I promise everyone will get a little something.”

 

Six’s shirt is ripped open. When did that happen? Eddie takes a man’s switchblade and holds its tip to her bare chest.

 

“Which do you think she’ll hate more, fellas, ‘slut’ or ‘whore’?”

 

“Wait! Wait,” Silus booms in his old, practiced command cadence. Every man freezes. Silus shakes the hair from his eyes, stands as tall as he can with bound arms, and rolls his shoulders so that his muscles ripple impressively. “I am a renegade centurion from his most August Caesar’s highest forces. I commanded Legions III, VI, and VII under the righteous symbol of the golden bull, burned a multitude of the camps of the 86 tribes with my own hands, and the Legion would be supremely happy to pay a hefty ransom of gold to have me returned for public execution.” He takes half a step forward to impress himself upon their attention. “Take me instead.”

 

"Gold, you say?" chimes in a man behind him.

 

"Enough to make you all wealthy."

 

The boss nods thoughtfully, tracing his lip with one finger. At least the knife hasn’t laid any more heavily on her soft pale skin. Eddie leans toward a short prisoner to one side and listens to a long piece of advice. Then he straightens and addresses Silus.

 

“All right, let’s say you are all of that. What’s the catch?”

 

“You take Six up the hill to the doctor and walk away,” he says promptly.

 

Eddie snorts. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

“I don’t kid.” 

 

Silus’s face is so stern, it fizzles out Eddie’s chuckle. “Yeah, I bet not. Look, pal, if you think I’m not gonna ice the bitch and then turn you in too-”

 

“-then you will have the entire Mojave after your blood.”

 

“What was that, asshole?”

 

“How many New Vegas citizens has she helped? How many tiny towns has she saved? Even the blasted NCR owes her a number completely unpayable favors! If you kill her in cold blood like this, every single gun in the entire state of Nevada will be out looking for you to skin you alive and fly you like a flag over the Stratosphere.”

 

Eddie doesn’t move, but even this smooth guy can’t hide the twitch of his eye. The other men whisper to each other and pass their weapons from hand to hand, digesting this previously unexplored outcome. Silus waits, forcing casualness into his posture to send the signal that he is confident they’ll take his deal. Several men start to argue with Eddie all at once, held back by his enormous bodyguard.

 

“No dice!” he shouts over them. “We’re not taking it! We put this moron down right here, right now and take this cunt back to our place and fuck her up, too! Put him down! Put him down!”

 

Silus roars and pushes forward, tackling a few powder gangers that were caught off guard. The rest pile onto him and drag him, yelling and swinging his head and shoulders violently all around, back into a kneeling position at Eddie’s feet. Six has been kicked aside, out of his line of sight, though he looks for her frantically. As his head is yanked back by handfuls of his long black hair, he spots her still face behind the bodyguard’s foot.

 

“Six…” he hisses, even as he knows it’s futile. “I’m sorry…”

 

Eddie presses his shotgun to Silus’s forehead. 

 

“Bye, fuc-”

 

_ POW! _

 

BARK!!

 

Eddie goes down in a spray of blood as a sleek black and tan dog leaps upon the beefy bodyguard’s throat, tearing it out.

 

“What the...?”

 

“Run!”

 

“From the hills!”

 

“Get your gun!”

 

Almost more than the whizzing bullets, the dog wreaks havoc among the dozen standing powder gangers. It bites legs and hands as it runs by, then leaps into the air and lands heavily on a fleeing man’s back so it can sink its teeth into his screaming face. That victim is soon dispatched with a bang. More shots ring out, but Silus is pushing his useless, tied body with only his toes, trying to reach Six. She doesn’t react to the chaos going on around them, but he curls his large frame around hers and her lips twitch as though talking in a dream.

 

The last bullet rings out, echoing off distant mountains. The sleek dog barks several times and whines, waiting for a scrawny woman clad in leather who slides down the loose gravel and shoulders her rifle.

 

“Cheyenne, stay. Good girl. Mister, are you alive?”

 

“Yes,” says Silus, craning his neck to see her. “Are you from Goodsprings?”

 

“Yes. I’m Sunny Smiles and this is Cheyenne.” She begins cutting Silus free. “She brought me here in time to save you, I guess. This is the most Powder Gangers that we’ve seen together before, so she must have known something was up. I see you’ve got the package courier, there. What’s wrong?” She finishes with Silus’s bonds and puts away the knife to lean over to Six and feel her neck.

 

“She’s very sick. I need to get her to the doc-”

 

“-the doctor, right.” Sunny, frowns and listens to Six’s chest. “She’s not breathing! Move over.” The little woman takes the courier in a strange embrace and balls her fists together. Suddenly, she squeezes her sharply, forcing her fists up into Six’s stomach so that she coughs and spits up an alarming amount of green fluid in disgusting ropes that cling to her lips. Sunny does it again, twice more, bringing up more fluid both times. Six hangs pathetically from her arms.

 

“There,” she says, quickly passing her back to Silus. “That won’t buy us long, though. Follow me; I’ll get you to Doc.”

 

One more time, the ex-centurion hauls him and Six upright. With no harness, Silus cradles her in his arms, holding her close. The woman and her dog dash away up the curving road, quite steeply uphill. He makes his feet stamp out a regular rhythm, gulps air in the biggest, most nourishing breaths he can, and follows her up the mountain like a freight train stuffed full of coal. Every muscle in his body is tired, overworked, aching, stiff, and strained. He stumbles more often than he takes a proper step. The road is steep and uneven and getting hard to see. Dusk is here. The little bugs are beginning to sting and bite.

 

Still, he sees Sunny’s flashing rifle and follows it until they turn down a street past a brightly lit tavern and several well-maintained trailers. Sunny waves meaningfully to an old man in a rocking chair, then puts on an extra burst of speed up the final hill, reaching Doc Mitchell’s several steps ahead so she can knock first and gain entrance for them.

 

“Bring her in,” says the Doc, still listening to Sunny’s preliminary report. “Put her on the black surgery table. Easy does it.”

 

Silus does as he is told, but holds one leg and one arm of hers in each hand, not quite able to let go. He feels too light without her. The doctor wastes no time, but settles a stethoscope into his ears and listens to her lungs, front and back.

 

“They’re full of water,” he says, turning to Sunny. “Go get a bucket, tape, and an IV. She’s going to drown if we don’t get it out right quick.” As she rushes off, he gently touches Silus’s hands, which are still gripping her tightly. “I’m going to need you to back up. I promise I can help, ok son? You’re going to have to let me do my job, but you can stay close if you do.”

 

With the worst feeling of numbness, he releases her and takes one step back. Only one.

 

Doc Mitchell strips off her ruined shirt and the long leather coat, piling them in a heap on the floor. He puts on a pair of blue surgical gloves and takes out a purple pen, with which he marks Six’s side, right between the middle ribs. About then, Sunny returns with an IV bag, which is hung from a tall hook and attached via needle to Six’s inner elbow. This is taped in place. Next, he puts the metal bucket on the ground, positioned precisely under the purple mark. Then, he takes something from a table full of instruments and holds it up to the light. It looks like a keg tap missing its spigot. On the opposite side from the curved spout protrudes a long, thick needle, gleaming silver. Six begins coughing and more green fluid drips from her lips.

 

“Doc, she’s choking!”

 

“Almost there. You’re gonna want to belt her down.”

 

It is only then Silus notices the leather straps and buckles dangling from the underside of the bed. He steps forward with one arm outstretched but is held up by Sunny’s emphatic headshake.

 

“It’s for her own good, so she doesn’t do herself harm. Stay over there!”

 

Doc Mitchell waits only long enough for Sunny Smiles to finish with the straps, then holds up the instrument to Six’s side, long needle lined up with the purple mark on her ribs. “One, two, three!” he counts, then swiftly pushes the instrument in up to the curved spigot, puncturing one lung with a pop. The effect is instantaneous. Six thrashes violently, only held still by the leather straps. Her choked, sticky, gurgling cough is the worst he’s ever heard, but it forces a long rope of infected green fluid out of the spout and down into the metal bucket with a sickening splash. After that, she takes a shuddering breath, coughs again, and forces out yet more. The fit is long and nerve-wracking, but at the end, when drips of fluid emit from the plastic spout, she is breathing evenly. Doc removes the tool, packs and tapes the wound closed, then repeats the procedure on the other lung with a fresh spout and another waterfall of putrescent phlegm.

 

As the good doctor is taping this second spout in place, Silus sways and sits heavily on the closest surface, a rolling cart. Sunny is at his side at once, supporting him by one arm.

 

“That bed over there can be yours. This is going to take a while, so you might as well get some shut-eye.”

 

Silus supposes he does, but when he does, he only seems to sleep for a moment before he needs to wake up and be back at her side. The entire night is broken often by Six’s coughs, indicating a need to switch the needle or replace the metal bucket, administer medicine or switch the IV. Eventually, they move the bed next to Six’s so Silus only has to sit up to check on her. It’s dawn when Doc removes his blue gloves with a snap and sits heavily in a chair. Sometime during the long slog, they attached her to a heart monitor, which beeps softly.

 

“Well, sir... we’ve done all we can. She’s got her antibiotics and her steroids. All the fluid’s out as we can get out, and she’s had two and a half IV’s, so she won’t dehydrate. If she makes it past this, she should be out of the woods.” He pats Silus’s shoulder and shuffles off to his waiting bed. Sunny is snoozing while curled up in an armchair, Cheyenne at her feet. Her paws twitch, maybe chasing a dream-rabbit or tearing out a nightmare’s throat. Silus touches Six’s hand, dangling off the side of the bed and finally really sleeps.

 

He wakes quite a long time later when a gentle pressure squeezes his fingertips. He sits up immediately and looks to Six.

 

Her eyes are open. 

 

One of them is crinkled into a smile.

 

“You’re alive,” he whispers.

 

She nods, wincing.

 

“You’re alive!” he laughs, pressing her hand to his lips over and over. “You’re alive… I thought… I thought that was the end.”

 

Six shakes her head and closes her eyes briefly. She must be so exhausted and loopy from medication. There must be something he can do to help, maybe to put her back to sleep so she can better recover. He remembers the leather briefcase which had been lashed to his trousers and spots it piled neatly on a table with his other things. He stumbles over to it and opens it to find a slim, leather-bound book.  _ On Walden Pond. _ Silus brings it back to his bed beside hers and opens it. His eyes slip off the crisply printed words to an etching of a tree with stretching branches. Amongst the leaves are several different species of bird, depicted with open, chirping beaks. It feels appropriate.

 

“When I Wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them,” he reads, “I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only. I lived there two years and two months. At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again…”

 

She squeezes his hand again and settles her head back, still facing him to listen.

 

She falls asleep in moments, but he keeps reading anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear sweet Jesus, do NOT perform ANY of the medical procedures I have clearly made up for this chapter. If you are a doctor or nurse, feel free to yell at me via comment about how I'm setting back surgery several centuries, as long as everyone understands I'm full of BS.
> 
> Anyway, there's one chapter left. Please share your thoughts with a comment.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you unfamiliar with kulning, it's like Swedish yodeling. Here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KvtT3UyhibQ

Silus stands from his work to stretch his aching back. The tatos are coming in strong and their thirsty roots are begging for more water, so he is installing long, thin rods that are stuffed with a kind of foam which draws up the cold groundwater for them. It’s hard work with a hammer, trying to keep them from bending or diverting course into a rock, but in the end, the plants will be happy, so it is worthwhile.

 

He pauses to wipe his brow and looks around the farm. It has grown in the last year, especially since the defeat of Legate Lanius at Hoover Dam. Caesar withdrew his troops back to Arizona to regroup and lick his wounds, but many recruits and even a few veteran soldiers were left behind by the hasty retreat. At first, feelings toward them were very hostile. New Vegas citizens still run them out of town, hurling rocks and insults. Worse, some small villages make them “stand trial” for their crimes, unthinkingly performing the same horrors upon the abandoned men that the Legion wrought upon the citizens themselves not so long ago. It was at this time Courier Six -freshly returned from telling the NCR to fuck off - came charging back to the farm with two such abused soldiers in tow, insisting that they needed to build “a bunkhouse for strays.” At present, eight such former Legionaries occupy the tall shack adjoining the ranch, living and working alongside he and Six.

 

Silus has since gotten over his jealousy. It was difficult at first since he was used to enjoying the entirety of Six’s attention, but it soon became obvious that they were not here to perform the same function as he. She instructed and punished them in a similar fashion, but without the crackle of electricity that passed through him when she picked up the lash from the hooks over the couch. He confessed his jealousy to her later and she meted out an appropriate reward; ten strikes with a salted cane. It was agonizing at the time but the salt stung for days after, reminding him of his place in her mind. He felt relieved and… grateful. Especially so since she was needed on the Strip more and more often to oversee the fledgling government.

 

The soldiers were becoming quite competent farmers, he thought, turning his mind away from thoughts of Six. At present, the boys were tending to the small herd of bighorners, feeding and watering them, mucking out their large paddock and strewing fresh straw about, carding their wool and such. Already that season they had rounded up the brahmin for branding, cleaned and epoxied their hooves, then observed and aided the mating process. Shortly after their care, that herd was turned loose upon the desert, free to graze wherever they chose and would return only to Six’s kulning call when it was time to be counted or sold. The profit was good and the experience was very informative for all involved.

 

He looks to the west past Nipton, where he knows the great statues at the Mojave Outpost delineate the edge of NCR influence. All NCR citizens who weren’t willing to change their alliance had been escorted to the border and set free along with their weaponry, trade goods, and supplies. According to the radio, Six was negotiating with the ambassador on the Strip to issue visas for tourists and immigrants, but the President was playing hardball and threatening to sanction the burgeoning country. Silus imagined any meeting with the over-expressive state head would go poorly in the face of the Courier’s stony exterior, quietly calculating his every effusive word. 

 

He laughs inwardly then sighs. She’s been gone for more than a week. The boys are good company, sure - he missed the company of other men and he certainly needed to feel like the head of a team again - but it isn’t the same without her quiet supervision. It feels like he is missing a big weight that holds him down to the earth and without it, he will float off into the cloudless sky, never to return.

 

Just then, Silus sees a plume of dust from the road. Heart in his mouth, he throws down his hammer and races up the hill to the gravestones. This little rise is the highest peak on the ranch and therefore the best to see what’s coming. He shades his eyes and squints… then gives a joyful shout and runs back down the hill.

 

“Courier Six is coming, soldiers," he barks. "Stop what you’re doing and make the place ready for inspection. Doubletime!”

 

With the crispness of seasoned campaigners, they salute, put away their tools and set about tidying the bunkhouse. While they take care of that, Silus sprints inside the main house. He looks quickly in the half-full stewpot and opens a few cans of vegetables and another packet of jerky to dump in. In another few moments, he has resituated the quilt on the bed, thrown all the stray clothes into the laundry basin, and hidden all the shoes under the clothes locker. It's not perfect but if he’d had any warning… oh well.

 

Back outside, the men are dressed in clean clothes and they have splashed some water on their faces. It’s not quite an armored inspection, but it smacks of enough familiarity to pass.

 

“Hellooooo the house!” calls an unfamiliar female voice. Silus feels alarmed. He was sure that the leader was Courier Six in her gas mask and ranger trenchcoat… who was that coming up now in power armor?

 

In fact, it’s several someones, together looking like the most ragtag team of adventurers or the quirkiest NCR grunt washouts who are about to band together and form their own vigilante unit. A tall woman in power armor, a talkative farmer with a shotgun, a lean man with a sniper rifle, a ghoul in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, a jumpy, blonde man wearing a tie, and an actual fucking nightkin in a flowered straw hat. Was he expected to feed all these people, this... zoo? 

 

“Damn, it’s like Six’s Home for Wayward Legionaries up in here!” says the farmer, surveying the men standing in a bewildered, but attentive line.

 

“Cass, have a little decency,” says the jumpy blonde man, pinching the bridge of his nose under thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “You haven’t even met them yet.”

 

“What? It’s just a joke. They don’t care.”

 

“They’re former Legion. They  _ care. _ ”

 

Silus cranes his head around the woman in power armor and spots Courier Six. She is paying the trader and mercenaries who escorted them and seems absolutely unconcerned by the circus she has brought with her and it's effect on the general peace. He looks back at the men, who have no solutions, either, then steps forward as though he knows what is going on and spreads his arms wide as he’s seen Caesar do; a long, long time ago. “Welcome to Wolfhorn Ranch. Can I offer you some… refreshment after your… long journey?”

 

“Swank!” says Cass, the farmer in pink gingham. She takes off her short leather jacket and hangs it on one of Silus’ outstretched arms. Across both, she lays her shotgun and hat.

 

“I am not a coat rack,” he says frostily, dropping his arms at once. All of her possessions fall straight into the dirt. The man in a lab coat behind her hides his laugh... poorly.

 

Six chooses this moment to stroll up buzzing, “Silus, I have brought home some guests. I see you have set about making them comfortable.” She removes the gas mask and the crinkle of her eye makes his face flush with high anger.

 

“I didn’t anticipate so many to dine this evening,” he says, willing himself not to yell.

 

“It’s a good thing we came as early as we did, then. Build a bonfire in the pit and we’ll slaughter a brahmin to roast.”

 

“Of course,” he says, stiffly.

 

Six looks at his face with her wide, blank eyes. “This is about Cass, isn’t it?” she says shrewdly, “You did well; she isn’t allowed to use you like a butler.”

 

Silus nods and goes to do as she wishes.

 

After their initial shock, the men slowly warm to the newcomers, who fall into line alongside them to work. The woman in power armor uses it to lift heavy wooden beams and pull a stubborn stump straight from the ground. She and the nightkin work together to roll away the boulders representing the limits of the ranch to create a wider area. The ghoul pulls out a wrench and, muttering darkly in Spanish all the while, goes off to the equipment shed. Cass and the quiet man with a sniper rifle head off to hunt while the blonde man, who bothers to introduce himself as Arcade, disappears inside the main house with Six.

 

Everything seems… in order? After a long, perplexed moment, he organizes the men to gather the stump and put it into the fire pit. Last spring, they lined an earthen pit with old bricks and concrete to make a space large enough for a fire that would burn all night. A few spindly chairs and split logs gave them a place to sit and eat together. Now, they pile dry brush, brahmin chips, and old tobacco stalks around the stump and use one precious match to start it off. Meanwhile, Silus and another man set up the iron rod upon two yokes that would turn the animal to roast.

 

Cass and the quiet man returned with not only a brahmin for roasting, but also a few geckos and their eggs. The other men took the brahmin for butchering, so Silus took the geckos and eggs. He would whip the eggs until light and frothy, then set them to cook atop delicate slices of salty gecko for a starter. After little bowls of jerky stew, the final entree would be the roasted brahmin, marinated and turned over the bonfire for hours until the meat fell from the bones. Several people had to help peel off the skin of the brahmin and remove its organs for processing, but in the end, it was placed on the spit with a bucket of oil, spices, and its own blood for basting with a massive paintbrush. The gecko was divided into a few different pots and set into the embers already falling from the burning stump. After a second thought, Silus went to go fetch the stew from inside so all the food could cook together.

 

He had forgotten that Six was in the house with Arcade until he opened the door and they both turned to him as if startled. Jealousy awoke in Silus’ chest at the thought that they had been in here, collaborating together behind closed doors, but then his back gave a painful twinge. Looking again, they were not sitting close together nor huddled with conspiracy. He just couldn’t see this thin, weak man in a lab coat accepting the full strength of the Courier at the end of a single-tail whip, and so his jealousy was mollified, if only a little. Aloof, he took the pot from the stove and raked ash over the embers to let them die. As he turned away, he caught a momentary glance of a blue velvet bag, a little bigger than his hand, on the table between them. Arcade looked uncomfortable, but Six was writing something down and paid him no mind.

 

Silus exited with the stew, thinking about the blue velvet bag and what they could be planning.

 

xXx

 

It’s amazing how working together can make a unit out of any strangers, Silus thought. A short day's work together was now becoming a large meal around a blazing bonfire. More chairs had been hauled out the bunkhouse to accommodate them all, but now the men and the guests sat together chatting amiably over hearty cuts of brahmin while sparks lit up the dark night. The nightkin, who insisted on being called “Grandma,” was eating an entire brahmin leg straight off the bone while she talked about Jacobstown with two former recruits, both quite young men. An older former officer sat talking mechanics with the Spanish-speaking ghoul for a conversation that rambled bilingually. Inside the power armor was a tall, strong woman named Veronica. She was very friendly with her short-cropped brown hair and big brown eyes, and had quickly become popular among the young farmers. He hated to tell the boys that they were barking up the wrong tree, since she seemed to have eyes only for Cass, but he supposed there was no real harm in it if they never made a move. The boys, intimidated by her strength and manner, seemed in no hurry to prove him wrong.

 

Boone, the man with the sniper rifle and an NCR red beret, was definitely the quietest. He ate sparsely and gave one-word answers when asked about anything accompanied by a thousand-yard-stare. With all the noise going on, Silus found himself sitting next to this man and eating quietly, grateful for the peace.

 

“How long were you in?” asked Silus, indicating Boone’s beret with his knife.

 

Boone’s jaw tensed. “Three, almost four tours,” he answered through gritted teeth.

 

“Hm.” Silus decides not to press his luck, but now it seems that having broken the barrier of silence, Boone is going to continue.

 

“I don’t like you.”

 

“All right,” says Silus, surprised by the honesty of his statement, but not the content.

 

“I don’t trust you.”

 

He doesn’t answer. He just waits for Boone to reach a point, which he presently does.

 

“If you do anything to her,  _ anything _ at all, I will put you down like the Legion dog you are.”

 

Silus snorts and gestures flippantly at the sniper with his greasy knife. “If you are giving me this speech on  _ her _ behalf, save your breath. She doesn’t need your protection. If you are giving me this speech to warn  _ me _ , forget about it. Nothing I can say will convince you that the Legion is in my past if you aren’t willing to see it.”

 

“Silus, I’d like to talk to you.”

 

It’s Six. He stands at once, nearly dropping his bowl of meat. “I will send the men to their bunks, then…” he says, moving to do so.

 

She holds up a hand. “No. No, they should witness this, too. Here, come stand with me.”

 

Six leads him close to the fire, in the middle of the crowd. Everyone turns to face them expectantly. Silus feels a bit put on the spot, but as per usual, Six doesn’t notice. She is checking something in the inner pocket of her leather duster. Here at the ranch, she rarely wears a mask, hood, or scarf, so Silus can watch the firelight play across her face. Sometimes it illuminates her scar, making her visage more imposing. Sometimes it doesn’t, though, and he can see a shadow of the person she was before she was shot in the head. Someone cleaner, someone more innocent. He brushes his long black hair out of his face. He expects he wouldn’t have liked her much before.

 

Satisfied by what she finds in the pocket, she settles her hands behind her back and looks up to him. She breathes evenly, seeming to prepare herself before she begins speaking. “Silus. You have demonstrated more… loyalty to me than I could ever have expected from you. You have stayed with me and helped me make a life here, something that can grow and prosper; a shelter from our unforgiving land. Not only that, but you have helped me improve the lives of hundreds, if not thousands of New Vegas citizens… and as if that weren’t enough... you saved my life.” She chuckles softly and looks down. “Here, I wanted to talk to you about how I feel and now I’m talking like an awful politician...” 

 

Silus waits while she clears her throat and tries again. “Silus, I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you anymore. Everyday, you show me with your actions what determination you have to succeed. Everyday, we make something new and better out of our lives and that’s something I can’t possibly put a price on. Everyday… you give your work, your strength, and your self to me without asking for anything in return. So… there’s one more thing I want to ask of you.” Courier Six reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out the blue velvet bag. With one trembling hand, she reaches in and pulls out a shining, silver circlet. 

 

It’s not quite a circle, actually. It’s curved elegantly on one side, dipping to meet the edges of a polished metal ring. Inside the ring is an emblem like a fluted bottlecap bearing a stamped number 6. Silus realizes, looking at how the silver circle attaches to either side of the metal ring, that it is a slave’s collar.

 

“Silus… will you consent to be my boy? To give of yourself every thought, every desire, and every need? Your burdens will become my burdens. Your troubles, my troubles. Your victories, my victories. I will care for you, feed you and clothe you, and make for you a home of myself. Where I go, you will go. Where I stay, you will stay. And will you wear this symbol of servitude so that all who see you will at once know to whom you have given yourself?”

 

Every person around the campfire waits with held breath. Silus is staring, not at the beautifully crafted collar in her hands, but into Courier Six’s face. To all others she would appear calm, but the former centurion of Caesar’s Legion knows that she is wound tight with anxiety and anticipation. Her wide eyes sparkle in the firelight. Her hair is a softly glinting cloud fluttering around her soft, round cheeks. He would like very much to kiss her right now. 

 

Slowly, he swallows and asks, more quietly than he would like, “Would this please you?”

 

“Yes, absolutely,” she says promptly, without hesitation, “but it isn’t just about me. It has to be your choice, too.”

 

“I have no such token to give in return.”

 

She laughs her breathy sigh of a laugh, “For you to take this freely from my hands and wear it would be all the token I could ever want.”

 

Silus reaches out and takes the collar. Its craftsmanship is truly unparalleled. He didn’t know so much silver still existed in one place all at once, much less that it could be shaped and polished thusly by crude post-apocalyptic tools. He squeezes the large circle of the collar together which causes the O ring to pop free and it can be settled around his neck. The dip on the ring side causes it to sit comfortably across his collarbones, and he can fit the ring back into the hooks of the silver circle to secure it. Its weight feels… correct.

 

Around him, the company has erupted into cheers, including the confused ex-soldiers, swept up in a rush of feeling. From somewhere, one of Six’s guests has produced several bottles of whisky, gin, and vodka and everyone’s cups seem to be full now, toasting the new couple. Six is beaming at him, and his eyes are full of her lopsided smile and shining eyes. He isn’t sure whether he should approach her or not when she steps up to him and throws her arms around his neck. Silus supposes he is allowed to embrace her in return and lifts her bodily from the ground, throwing her legs over one arm so she is held close to his chest. He doesn’t care about the whoops and catcalls, he just presses his forehead to hers and carries her off to the main house.

 

He sets her on her feet, latches the door behind them, then moves off to light a kerosene lamp and hang it from a hook over the table. Then, he turns to face her.

 

Her face is just as soft and round as it was by the fireside, though the kerosene flame gives it an unearthly glow. It’s too dim to really see color, but he can see how pale her eyes are, fixed only on him. She is breathing faster than normal through inviting, parted lips. Silus has to resist the compulsion to kneel and beg for her favor. He swallows hard and asks his disbelieving question.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Yes,” she says, hardly more than a whisper.

 

“For the rest of our lives?”

 

“As long as you’re willing,” she says with a moan of longing at the edge of her voice.

 

“Then… will you give me one more favor? My last as a free man?”

 

Her eyes flick to the silver collar around his neck and the corner of her lip curls. “Yes?”

 

“Let me make love to you,” Silus says, trying not to sound like pleading. “The way I’ve always wanted. Consider it… my token to you.”

 

“...yes.”

 

He crosses the room in one great stride and seizes her in his arms, crushing his lips to hers like a dying man lost for air. She meets him with equal fervor, drawing his lip between hers with a sharp nip that lights his nerves on fire. His blood boils. Silus wants to take it fast and hard and leave her screaming… but he forces himself to and steps back. If she is surprised, her blank face doesn’t show it. 

 

Instead, he takes her coat and drapes it precisely over the arm of the couch. He is equally meticulous with her white shirt and gecko-skin belt creating a very neat pile. Slowly, as though they have all the time in the world, he kneels and undoes the laces of her shining, black boots. Carefully, almost reverently, he takes the back of her knee and lifts out first one foot, then the other. The boots go in the corner by the clothes lockers. 

 

When he returns, he stands behind her. Quietly, he lets his presence loom over her until the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she shivers. Only then does he unto the knot holding her breast wrappings on. They cling to her skin for only a moment, then unravel and fall down her sides to pool on the floor. He reaches around her waist to the clasp of her worn jeans and, with a quick rubbing motion, undoes them as well. She steps out of them and kicks them to one side. 

 

Her head twitches as though to look at him. “Don’t move,” he says before she can complete the motion. “Look into the light.” 

 

It is much quicker to undress himself but he knows that her ears are tuned to every rustle of fabric and click of buttons so it  _ feels _ as though the wait is much longer. When he, finally standing naked, leans forward to press his lips to the nape of her neck, she gasps with relief. He holds her there with gently pressed teeth so that his hands can wander over her shoulders and arms, lightly trail up her sensitive ribs and cup her breasts. Her skin shivers as the lightest touch and her nipples are already hard buds, pressing into his thumbs. It must feel as though invisible hands are exploring her body, ghostly and unseen.

 

Silus doesn’t stop there, even though he is growing more aroused by the second. His fingers fall lower still, rounding the curve of her hips and teasing the part of her lips. She is flushed with heat and beginning to drip with desire. It is easy for his fingertips to slip between her lips and brush against her Venus’s pearl. She gasps in a way that isn’t quite a cry, but is more than a simple breath and leans back against him so that her knees can fall apart to let him in. He deliberately backs off and lets her body shiver against his, touching in almost all the places two people can at once. Her head rests back against his shoulder, exposing the brightly shining column of her throat. He reaches around her with his free arm and presses his hand to her throat to hold her there. She bites her lips, unused to being controlled in such a way.

 

Thus subdued, he resumes his delicious torture, once again parting her labia with his fingers to stroke the most intimate bundle of nerves at the peak of her legs. He draws slow, lazy circles around her, feeling her breath under his hand become more and more ragged with each pass. Her entire weight is leaning against him, sweating and shaking in time with his fingers. When he sees a glimmer of pain at the corner of her eye, he lets his fingers stray from her clit and dip further down to her tight entrance. 

 

It is almost nothing to dip one broad finger inside her considering the waterfall of arousal coating her thighs. Even so, it elicits a deep moan that vibrates through his body as well. He presses his finger in deeply, up to the last knuckle so he can stroke her walls on the way back out, then presses in again for an even needier moan. Soon, she takes two of his fingers, trembling on his knees hard enough to fall if he weren’t holding her by the neck. At three, she balks, twisting her hips away.

 

“Shhh,” he whispers into her ear. “Open up to me. Lean back and open your mouth.”

 

After a moment, she does. Her legs, mimicking her mouth, fall so far apart that Silus has to back them both onto the couch or risk the whole operation crashing down. She takes his three fingers slowly, accepting them inch by whimpering inch, until they, too, are buried in her up to the last knuckle. The extra delicious thing about fingering her from this position is that while his fingers are in her, the heel of his palm is pressed against her pearl meaning that he can tease her entrance  _ and _ her clit simultaneously.

 

“Are you ready?” he growls into her neck, still held against his shoulder by one hand. Her eyes pop open and glance his way. She nods and bites her lip again.

 

He withdraws his fingers slowly, then slams them into her, stretching her wide and smacking her pearl with a wet  _ slap. _ She cries out, a little barking sound of surprise, pleasure, and pain, but makes no move to free herself, so he does it again… and again… and again until her moans and gasps become one, long, sound of need. Harder and harder he drives her, pressing his fingers deeply inside her and letting the palm of his hand grind against her. She is talking nonsense now, stuttering out his name and a variety of curses that don’t alleviate the building coil tightening inside her. He can feel her body stretched tight like a spring, alternately pressing into his hand or back into his crotch where his cock is ready at full mast, pressed deeply between her taut ass cheeks.

 

“Do it… do it now,” he mutters, just loudly enough for her to hear over her discordant noise, and with the deepest plunge of all, drives his hand against her body, splaying all of his fingers wide inside her.

 

The reaction is immediate. With a choked sound against his free hand, the wire snaps and she cums, thrashing and crying, upon his knees. His hand gently massages her through the intense waves of pleasure, feeling each successive spasm drop her back down until he judges that she is ready. 

 

Just before her eyes open and her body becomes heavy with relaxation, he pushes her forward, topping her out of his lap. She yelps with alarm and throws out her arms to catch herself, unwittingly positioning herself perfectly on all fours. Silus follows closely after her, seizing her hips and lining up his straining cock with her entrance, still trembling with sensitivity from her orgasm. He doesn’t hesitate any longer than that, but plunges himself in more deeply than his fingers could ever manage. She is hot like a furnace, deliriously consuming him and squeezing as she cries out. Silus doesn’t let her recover or adjust at all, but thrusts like a machine with no off-switch, relentlessly emptying and filling her. He grasps her hips hard enough to bruise to pull her savagely against him, bringing them together with a stinging  _ slap _ .

 

It’s all she can do to keep herself up on her hands and elbows. She must be scratched to hell against the harsh wooden floor, but she pushes back against him all the same, accepting him as deeply as she can. Her juice is on his legs, now. Her sweat is on his hands. The smell of sex and arousal clings to them and the house both. Silus looks his fill on the slope of her back, the swing of her hair as he fucks her and feels himself grow close. He grits his teeth and thrusts more wildly, struggling to maintain control like holding back the tide.

 

She looks back over her shoulder, eyes unfocused with pleasure. She only says one thing, drawn from between her teeth, “...good… boy…”

 

But it undoes him completely. He slams hard into her and feels the dam burst, spilling himself inside her and losing the support of his arms. One, almighty spasm shakes the last of his desire from his very body and throws him to the ground at the same time, caught only by her waiting arms.

 

He twitches himself to stillness there, nestled against her bare breast. He realizes that the thrumming in his ears is not his own heartbeat, but hers already slow and steady. Constant. Silus comes back to himself and sighs with deep content.

 

“Thank you, ma’am.”

 

Together, they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for your readership and your support and your lovely words of encouragement. I cannot express how much they mean to me, each little reminder that someone else is out there, listening. I am finished with the story of Six and Silus, but there will be other stories, some perhaps even in New Vegas. If you ever have a question or a comment, or if you need advice or an ear to listen, you all have my heart and a little piece of me with you always; feel free to contact me, even for no reason at all.
> 
> Thank you.


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